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diff --git a/963-0.txt b/963-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e0e23f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/963-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,36888 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE DORRIT *** + + + + +LITTLE DORRIT + +By Charles Dickens + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Preface to the 1857 Edition + + + BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY + 1. Sun and Shadow + 2. Fellow Travellers + 3. Home + 4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream + 5. Family Affairs + 6. The Father of the Marshalsea + 7. The Child of the Marshalsea + 8. The Lock + 9. little Mother + 10. Containing the whole Science of Government + 11. Let Loose + 12. Bleeding Heart Yard + 13. Patriarchal + 14. Little Dorrit’s Party + 15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream + 16. Nobody’s Weakness + 17. Nobody’s Rival + 18. Little Dorrit’s Lover + 19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations + 20. Moving in Society + 21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint + 22. A Puzzle + 23. Machinery in Motion + 24. Fortune-Telling + 25. Conspirators and Others + 26. Nobody’s State of Mind + 27. Five-and-Twenty + 28. Nobody’s Disappearance + 29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming + 30. The Word of a Gentleman + 31. Spirit + 32. More Fortune-Telling + 33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint + 34. A Shoal of Barnacles + 35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand + 36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan + + + BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES + + 1. Fellow Travellers + 2. Mrs General + 3. On the Road + 4. A Letter from Little Dorrit + 5. Something Wrong Somewhere + 6. Something Right Somewhere + 7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism + 8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’ + 9. Appearance and Disappearance + 10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken + 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit + 12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden + 13. The Progress of an Epidemic + 14. Taking Advice + 15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons should + not be joined together + 16. Getting on + 17. Missing + 18. A Castle in the Air + 19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air + 20. Introduces the next + 21. The History of a Self-Tormentor + 22. Who Passes by this Road so late? + 23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise, respecting her + Dreams + 24. The Evening of a Long Day + 25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office + 26. Reaping the Whirlwind + 27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea + 28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea + 29. A Plea in the Marshalsea + 30. Closing in + 31. Closed + 32. Going + 33. Going! + 34. Gone + + + + +PREFACE TO THE 1857 EDITION + + +I have been occupied with this story, during many working hours of two +years. I must have been very ill employed, if I could not leave its +merits and demerits as a whole, to express themselves on its being read +as a whole. But, as it is not unreasonable to suppose that I may have +held its threads with a more continuous attention than anyone else can +have given them during its desultory publication, it is not unreasonable +to ask that the weaving may be looked at in its completed state, and +with the pattern finished. + +If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the +Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the +common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention the +unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good manners, in the +days of a Russian war, and of a Court of Inquiry at Chelsea. If I might +make so bold as to defend that extravagant conception, Mr Merdle, I +would hint that it originated after the Railroad-share epoch, in the +times of a certain Irish bank, and of one or two other equally +laudable enterprises. If I were to plead anything in mitigation of the +preposterous fancy that a bad design will sometimes claim to be a good +and an expressly religious design, it would be the curious coincidence +that it has been brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of +the public examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But, +I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these counts, +if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority) that nothing +like them was ever known in this land. + +Some of my readers may have an interest in being informed whether or no +any portions of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I did not know, +myself, until the sixth of this present month, when I went to look. I +found the outer front courtyard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed +into a butter shop; and I then almost gave up every brick of the jail +for lost. Wandering, however, down a certain adjacent ‘Angel Court, +leading to Bermondsey’, I came to ‘Marshalsea Place:’ the houses in +which I recognised, not only as the great block of the former prison, +but as preserving the rooms that arose in my mind’s-eye when I became +Little Dorrit’s biographer. The smallest boy I ever conversed with, +carrying the largest baby I ever saw, offered a supernaturally +intelligent explanation of the locality in its old uses, and was very +nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I judge him to be) came +by his information, I don’t know; he was a quarter of a century too +young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed to the window of +the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her father lived so +long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who tenanted that +apartment at present? He said, ‘Tom Pythick.’ I asked him who was Tom +Pythick? and he said, ‘Joe Pythick’s uncle.’ + +A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used +to enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for +ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of +Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very +paving-stones of the extinct Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard +to the right and to the left, very little altered if at all, except that +the walls were lowered when the place got free; will look upon rooms +in which the debtors lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of +many miserable years. + +In the Preface to Bleak House I remarked that I had never had so many +readers. In the Preface to its next successor, Little Dorrit, I have +still to repeat the same words. Deeply sensible of the affection and +confidence that have grown up between us, I add to this Preface, as I +added to that, May we meet again! + +London May 1857 + + + + +BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY + + + + +CHAPTER 1. Sun and Shadow + + +Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day. + +A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern +France then, than at any other time, before or since. Everything in +Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the fervid sky, and been +stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. +Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, +staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, +staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be +seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their +load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air +barely moved their faint leaves. + +There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbour, +or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demarcation between the two +colours, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not +pass; but it lay as quiet as the abominable pool, with which it never +mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at +their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or +day, for months. Hindoos, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, +Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, +descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade at Marseilles, +sought the shade alike--taking refuge in any hiding-place from a sea too +intensely blue to be looked at, and a sky of purple, set with one great +flaming jewel of fire. + +The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of +Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, +slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere +else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the +hill-side, stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable +plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the +monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped +beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, +in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did +their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; +so did the exhausted labourers in the fields. Everything that lived or +grew, was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly +over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like +a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in +the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting. + +Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to keep +out the stare. Grant it but a chink or keyhole, and it shot in like a +white-hot arrow. The churches were the freest from it. To come out of +the twilight of pillars and arches--dreamily dotted with winking lamps, +dreamily peopled with ugly old shadows piously dozing, spitting, and +begging--was to plunge into a fiery river, and swim for life to the +nearest strip of shade. So, with people lounging and lying wherever +shade was, with but little hum of tongues or barking of dogs, with +occasional jangling of discordant church bells and rattling of vicious +drums, Marseilles, a fact to be strongly smelt and tasted, lay broiling +in the sun one day. + +In Marseilles that day there was a villainous prison. In one of its +chambers, so repulsive a place that even the obtrusive stare blinked at +it, and left it to such refuse of reflected light as it could find for +itself, were two men. Besides the two men, a notched and disfigured +bench, immovable from the wall, with a draught-board rudely hacked upon +it with a knife, a set of draughts, made of old buttons and soup bones, +a set of dominoes, two mats, and two or three wine bottles. That was all +the chamber held, exclusive of rats and other unseen vermin, in addition +to the seen vermin, the two men. + +It received such light as it got through a grating of iron bars +fashioned like a pretty large window, by means of which it could be +always inspected from the gloomy staircase on which the grating gave. +There was a broad strong ledge of stone to this grating where the bottom +of it was let into the masonry, three or four feet above the ground. +Upon it, one of the two men lolled, half sitting and half lying, with +his knees drawn up, and his feet and shoulders planted against the +opposite sides of the aperture. The bars were wide enough apart to +admit of his thrusting his arm through to the elbow; and so he held on +negligently, for his greater ease. + +A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the +imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all +deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, +so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air +was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, +the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have +kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the +Indian ocean. + +The man who lay on the ledge of the grating was even chilled. He jerked +his great cloak more heavily upon him by an impatient movement of one +shoulder, and growled, ‘To the devil with this Brigand of a Sun that +never shines in here!’ + +He was waiting to be fed, looking sideways through the bars that he +might see the further down the stairs, with much of the expression of +a wild beast in similar expectation. But his eyes, too close together, +were not so nobly set in his head as those of the king of beasts are in +his, and they were sharp rather than bright--pointed weapons with little +surface to betray them. They had no depth or change; they glittered, +and they opened and shut. So far, and waiving their use to himself, a +clockmaker could have made a better pair. He had a hook nose, handsome +after its kind, but too high between the eyes by probably just as much +as his eyes were too near to one another. For the rest, he was large and +tall in frame, had thin lips, where his thick moustache showed them at +all, and a quantity of dry hair, of no definable colour, in its shaggy +state, but shot with red. The hand with which he held the grating +(seamed all over the back with ugly scratches newly healed), was +unusually small and plump; would have been unusually white but for the +prison grime. + +The other man was lying on the stone floor, covered with a coarse brown +coat. + +‘Get up, pig!’ growled the first. ‘Don’t sleep when I am hungry.’ + +‘It’s all one, master,’ said the pig, in a submissive manner, and not +without cheerfulness; ‘I can wake when I will, I can sleep when I will. +It’s all the same.’ + +As he said it, he rose, shook himself, scratched himself, tied his brown +coat loosely round his neck by the sleeves (he had previously used it +as a coverlet), and sat down upon the pavement yawning, with his back +against the wall opposite to the grating. + +‘Say what the hour is,’ grumbled the first man. + +‘The mid-day bells will ring--in forty minutes.’ When he made the +little pause, he had looked round the prison-room, as if for certain +information. + +‘You are a clock. How is it that you always know?’ + +‘How can I say? I always know what the hour is, and where I am. I was +brought in here at night, and out of a boat, but I know where I am. See +here! Marseilles harbour;’ on his knees on the pavement, mapping it all +out with a swarthy forefinger; ‘Toulon (where the galleys are), Spain +over there, Algiers over _there_. Creeping away to the left here, Nice. +Round by the Cornice to Genoa. Genoa Mole and Harbour. Quarantine +Ground. City there; terrace gardens blushing with the bella donna. Here, +Porto Fino. Stand out for Leghorn. Out again for Civita Vecchia, so away +to--hey! there’s no room for Naples;’ he had got to the wall by this +time; ‘but it’s all one; it’s in there!’ + +He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a +lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though +rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his +grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown +throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like +trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and +a knife in it. + +‘Judge if I come back from Naples as I went! See here, my master! Civita +Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, Off Nice (which is in +there), Marseilles, you and me. The apartment of the jailer and his keys +is where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national +razor in its case--the guillotine locked up.’ + +The other man spat suddenly on the pavement, and gurgled in his throat. + +Some lock below gurgled in _its_ throat immediately afterwards, and then +a door crashed. Slow steps began ascending the stairs; the prattle of +a sweet little voice mingled with the noise they made; and the +prison-keeper appeared carrying his daughter, three or four years old, +and a basket. + +‘How goes the world this forenoon, gentlemen? My little one, you see, +going round with me to have a peep at her father’s birds. Fie, then! +Look at the birds, my pretty, look at the birds.’ + +He looked sharply at the birds himself, as he held the child up at +the grate, especially at the little bird, whose activity he seemed to +mistrust. ‘I have brought your bread, Signor John Baptist,’ said he +(they all spoke in French, but the little man was an Italian); ‘and if I +might recommend you not to game--’ + +‘You don’t recommend the master!’ said John Baptist, showing his teeth +as he smiled. + +‘Oh! but the master wins,’ returned the jailer, with a passing look of +no particular liking at the other man, ‘and you lose. It’s quite another +thing. You get husky bread and sour drink by it; and he gets sausage of +Lyons, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good +wine by it. Look at the birds, my pretty!’ + +‘Poor birds!’ said the child. + +The fair little face, touched with divine compassion, as it peeped +shrinkingly through the grate, was like an angel’s in the prison. John +Baptist rose and moved towards it, as if it had a good attraction for +him. The other bird remained as before, except for an impatient glance +at the basket. + +‘Stay!’ said the jailer, putting his little daughter on the outer ledge +of the grate, ‘she shall feed the birds. This big loaf is for Signor +John Baptist. We must break it to get it through into the cage. So, +there’s a tame bird to kiss the little hand! This sausage in a vine +leaf is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again--this veal in savoury jelly is for +Monsieur Rigaud. Again--these three white little loaves are for Monsieur +Rigaud. Again, this cheese--again, this wine--again, this tobacco--all +for Monsieur Rigaud. Lucky bird!’ + +The child put all these things between the bars into the soft, Smooth, +well-shaped hand, with evident dread--more than once drawing back +her own and looking at the man with her fair brow roughened into an +expression half of fright and half of anger. Whereas she had put the +lump of coarse bread into the swart, scaled, knotted hands of John +Baptist (who had scarcely as much nail on his eight fingers and two +thumbs as would have made out one for Monsieur Rigaud), with ready +confidence; and, when he kissed her hand, had herself passed it +caressingly over his face. Monsieur Rigaud, indifferent to this +distinction, propitiated the father by laughing and nodding at the +daughter as often as she gave him anything; and, so soon as he had +all his viands about him in convenient nooks of the ledge on which he +rested, began to eat with an appetite. + +When Monsieur Rigaud laughed, a change took place in his face, that +was more remarkable than prepossessing. His moustache went up under his +nose, and his nose came down over his moustache, in a very sinister and +cruel manner. + +‘There!’ said the jailer, turning his basket upside down to beat the +crumbs out, ‘I have expended all the money I received; here is the note +of it, and _that’s_ a thing accomplished. Monsieur Rigaud, as I expected +yesterday, the President will look for the pleasure of your society at +an hour after mid-day, to-day.’ + +‘To try me, eh?’ said Rigaud, pausing, knife in hand and morsel in +mouth. + +‘You have said it. To try you.’ + +‘There is no news for me?’ asked John Baptist, who had begun, +contentedly, to munch his bread. + +The jailer shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Lady of mine! Am I to lie here all my life, my father?’ + +‘What do I know!’ cried the jailer, turning upon him with southern +quickness, and gesticulating with both his hands and all his fingers, +as if he were threatening to tear him to pieces. ‘My friend, how is it +possible for me to tell how long you are to lie here? What do I know, +John Baptist Cavalletto? Death of my life! There are prisoners here +sometimes, who are not in such a devil of a hurry to be tried.’ + +He seemed to glance obliquely at Monsieur Rigaud in this remark; but +Monsieur Rigaud had already resumed his meal, though not with quite so +quick an appetite as before. + +‘Adieu, my birds!’ said the keeper of the prison, taking his pretty +child in his arms, and dictating the words with a kiss. + +‘Adieu, my birds!’ the pretty child repeated. + +Her innocent face looked back so brightly over his shoulder, as he +walked away with her, singing her the song of the child’s game: + + ‘Who passes by this road so late? + Compagnon de la Majolaine! + Who passes by this road so late? + Always gay!’ + +that John Baptist felt it a point of honour to reply at the grate, and +in good time and tune, though a little hoarsely: + + ‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, + Compagnon de la Majolaine! + Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, + Always gay!’ + +Which accompanied them so far down the few steep stairs, that the +prison-keeper had to stop at last for his little daughter to hear the +song out, and repeat the Refrain while they were yet in sight. Then the +child’s head disappeared, and the prison-keeper’s head disappeared, but +the little voice prolonged the strain until the door clashed. + +Monsieur Rigaud, finding the listening John Baptist in his way before +the echoes had ceased (even the echoes were the weaker for imprisonment, +and seemed to lag), reminded him with a push of his foot that he had +better resume his own darker place. The little man sat down again +upon the pavement with the negligent ease of one who was thoroughly +accustomed to pavements; and placing three hunks of coarse bread before +himself, and falling to upon a fourth, began contentedly to work his way +through them as if to clear them off were a sort of game. + +Perhaps he glanced at the Lyons sausage, and perhaps he glanced at the +veal in savoury jelly, but they were not there long, to make his mouth +water; Monsieur Rigaud soon dispatched them, in spite of the president +and tribunal, and proceeded to suck his fingers as clean as he could, +and to wipe them on his vine leaves. Then, as he paused in his drink +to contemplate his fellow-prisoner, his moustache went up, and his nose +came down. + +‘How do you find the bread?’ + +‘A little dry, but I have my old sauce here,’ returned John Baptist, +holding up his knife. + +‘How sauce?’ + +‘I can cut my bread so--like a melon. Or so--like an omelette. Or +so--like a fried fish. Or so--like Lyons sausage,’ said John Baptist, +demonstrating the various cuts on the bread he held, and soberly chewing +what he had in his mouth. + +‘Here!’ cried Monsieur Rigaud. ‘You may drink. You may finish this.’ + +It was no great gift, for there was mighty little wine left; but Signor +Cavalletto, jumping to his feet, received the bottle gratefully, turned +it upside down at his mouth, and smacked his lips. + +‘Put the bottle by with the rest,’ said Rigaud. + +The little man obeyed his orders, and stood ready to give him a lighted +match; for he was now rolling his tobacco into cigarettes by the aid of +little squares of paper which had been brought in with it. + +‘Here! You may have one.’ + +‘A thousand thanks, my master!’ John Baptist said in his own language, +and with the quick conciliatory manner of his own countrymen. + +Monsieur Rigaud arose, lighted a cigarette, put the rest of his stock +into a breast-pocket, and stretched himself out at full length upon the +bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement, holding one of his ankles in +each hand, and smoking peacefully. There seemed to be some uncomfortable +attraction of Monsieur Rigaud’s eyes to the immediate neighbourhood of +that part of the pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. They +were so drawn in that direction, that the Italian more than once +followed them to and back from the pavement in some surprise. + +‘What an infernal hole this is!’ said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long +pause. ‘Look at the light of day. Day? the light of yesterday week, the +light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!’ + +It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in the +staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen--nor anything else. + +‘Cavalletto,’ said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from +this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, ‘you +know me for a gentleman?’ + +‘Surely, surely!’ + +‘How long have we been here?’ + +‘I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three +days, at five this afternoon.’ + +‘Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread +the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the +dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work?’ + +‘Never!’ + +‘Have you ever thought of looking to me to do any kind of work?’ + +John Baptist answered with that peculiar back-handed shake of the +right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian +language. + +‘No! You knew from the first moment when you saw me here, that I was a +gentleman?’ + +‘ALTRO!’ returned John Baptist, closing his eyes and giving his head a +most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, +a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, +a compliment, a joke, and fifty other things, became in the present +instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, +our familiar English ‘I believe you!’ + +‘Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am! And a gentleman I’ll live, and +a gentleman I’ll die! It’s my intent to be a gentleman. It’s my game. +Death of my soul, I play it out wherever I go!’ + +He changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air: + +‘Here I am! See me! Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box into the company +of a mere smuggler;--shut up with a poor little contraband trader, whose +papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of besides, for placing +his boat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at the disposition +of other little people whose papers are wrong; and he instinctively +recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It’s well +done! By Heaven! I win, however the game goes.’ + +Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down. + +‘What’s the hour now?’ he asked, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather +difficult of association with merriment. + +‘A little half-hour after mid-day.’ + +‘Good! The President will have a gentleman before him soon. Come! +Shall I tell you on what accusation? It must be now, or never, for I +shall not return here. Either I shall go free, or I shall go to be made +ready for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.’ + +Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his parted lips, and +showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected. + +‘I am a’--Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it--‘I am a cosmopolitan +gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss--Canton de +Vaud. My mother was French by blood, English by birth. I myself was born +in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.’ + +His theatrical air, as he stood with one arm on his hip within the folds +of his cloak, together with his manner of disregarding his companion +and addressing the opposite wall instead, seemed to intimate that he +was rehearsing for the President, whose examination he was shortly to +undergo, rather than troubling himself merely to enlighten so small a +person as John Baptist Cavalletto. + +‘Call me five-and-thirty years of age. I have seen the world. I have +lived here, and lived there, and lived like a gentleman everywhere. I +have been treated and respected as a gentleman universally. If you try +to prejudice me by making out that I have lived by my wits--how do +your lawyers live--your politicians--your intriguers--your men of the +Exchange?’ + +He kept his small smooth hand in constant requisition, as if it were a +witness to his gentility that had often done him good service before. + +‘Two years ago I came to Marseilles. I admit that I was poor; I had been +ill. When your lawyers, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of +the Exchange fall ill, and have not scraped money together, _they_ become +poor. I put up at the Cross of Gold,--kept then by Monsieur Henri +Barronneau--sixty-five at least, and in a failing state of health. I had +lived in the house some four months when Monsieur Henri Barronneau had +the misfortune to die;--at any rate, not a rare misfortune, that. It +happens without any aid of mine, pretty often.’ + +John Baptist having smoked his cigarette down to his fingers’ ends, +Monsieur Rigaud had the magnanimity to throw him another. He lighted the +second at the ashes of the first, and smoked on, looking sideways at his +companion, who, preoccupied with his own case, hardly looked at him. + +‘Monsieur Barronneau left a widow. She was two-and-twenty. She had +gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was +beautiful. I continued to live at the Cross of Gold. I married Madame +Barronneau. It is not for me to say whether there was any great +disparity in such a match. Here I stand, with the contamination of a +jail upon me; but it is possible that you may think me better suited to +her than her former husband was.’ + +He had a certain air of being a handsome man--which he was not; and +a certain air of being a well-bred man--which he was not. It was mere +swagger and challenge; but in this particular, as in many others, +blustering assertion goes for proof, half over the world. + +‘Be it as it may, Madame Barronneau approved of me. _That_ is not to +prejudice me, I hope?’ + +His eye happening to light upon John Baptist with this inquiry, that +little man briskly shook his head in the negative, and repeated in an +argumentative tone under his breath, altro, altro, altro, altro--an +infinite number of times. + +‘Now came the difficulties of our position. I am proud. I say nothing +in defence of pride, but I am proud. It is also my character to govern. +I can’t submit; I must govern. Unfortunately, the property of Madame +Rigaud was settled upon herself. Such was the insane act of her late +husband. More unfortunately still, she had relations. When a wife’s +relations interpose against a husband who is a gentleman, who is proud, +and who must govern, the consequences are inimical to peace. There +was yet another source of difference between us. Madame Rigaud was +unfortunately a little vulgar. I sought to improve her manners and +ameliorate her general tone; she (supported in this likewise by her +relations) resented my endeavours. Quarrels began to arise between us; +and, propagated and exaggerated by the slanders of the relations of +Madame Rigaud, to become notorious to the neighbours. It has been said +that I treated Madame Rigaud with cruelty. I may have been seen to slap +her face--nothing more. I have a light hand; and if I have been seen +apparently to correct Madame Rigaud in that manner, I have done it +almost playfully.’ + +If the playfulness of Monsieur Rigaud were at all expressed by his smile +at this point, the relations of Madame Rigaud might have said that +they would have much preferred his correcting that unfortunate woman +seriously. + +‘I am sensitive and brave. I do not advance it as a merit to be +sensitive and brave, but it is my character. If the male relations of +Madame Rigaud had put themselves forward openly, I should have known how +to deal with them. They knew that, and their machinations were conducted +in secret; consequently, Madame Rigaud and I were brought into frequent +and unfortunate collision. Even when I wanted any little sum of money +for my personal expenses, I could not obtain it without collision--and +I, too, a man whose character it is to govern! One night, Madame Rigaud +and myself were walking amicably--I may say like lovers--on a height +overhanging the sea. An evil star occasioned Madame Rigaud to advert to +her relations; I reasoned with her on that subject, and remonstrated on +the want of duty and devotion manifested in her allowing herself to be +influenced by their jealous animosity towards her husband. Madame Rigaud +retorted; I retorted; Madame Rigaud grew warm; I grew warm, and provoked +her. I admit it. Frankness is a part of my character. At length, Madame +Rigaud, in an access of fury that I must ever deplore, threw herself +upon me with screams of passion (no doubt those that were overheard +at some distance), tore my clothes, tore my hair, lacerated my hands, +trampled and trod the dust, and finally leaped over, dashing herself to +death upon the rocks below. Such is the train of incidents which +malice has perverted into my endeavouring to force from Madame Rigaud +a relinquishment of her rights; and, on her persistence in a refusal to +make the concession I required, struggling with her--assassinating her!’ + +He stepped aside to the ledge where the vine leaves yet lay strewn +about, collected two or three, and stood wiping his hands upon them, +with his back to the light. + +‘Well,’ he demanded after a silence, ‘have you nothing to say to all +that?’ + +‘It’s ugly,’ returned the little man, who had risen, and was brightening +his knife upon his shoe, as he leaned an arm against the wall. + +‘What do you mean?’ + +John Baptist polished his knife in silence. + +‘Do you mean that I have not represented the case correctly?’ + +‘Al-tro!’ returned John Baptist. The word was an apology now, and stood +for ‘Oh, by no means!’ + +‘What then?’ + +‘Presidents and tribunals are so prejudiced.’ + +‘Well,’ cried the other, uneasily flinging the end of his cloak over his +shoulder with an oath, ‘let them do their worst!’ + +‘Truly I think they will,’ murmured John Baptist to himself, as he bent +his head to put his knife in his sash. + +Nothing more was said on either side, though they both began walking +to and fro, and necessarily crossed at every turn. Monsieur Rigaud +sometimes stopped, as if he were going to put his case in a new light, +or make some irate remonstrance; but Signor Cavalletto continuing to +go slowly to and fro at a grotesque kind of jog-trot pace with his eyes +turned downward, nothing came of these inclinings. + +By-and-by the noise of the key in the lock arrested them both. The sound +of voices succeeded, and the tread of feet. The door clashed, the voices +and the feet came on, and the prison-keeper slowly ascended the stairs, +followed by a guard of soldiers. + +‘Now, Monsieur Rigaud,’ said he, pausing for a moment at the grate, with +his keys in his hands, ‘have the goodness to come out.’ + +‘I am to depart in state, I see?’ + +‘Why, unless you did,’ returned the jailer, ‘you might depart in so many +pieces that it would be difficult to get you together again. There’s a +crowd, Monsieur Rigaud, and it doesn’t love you.’ + +He passed on out of sight, and unlocked and unbarred a low door in the +corner of the chamber. ‘Now,’ said he, as he opened it and appeared +within, ‘come out.’ + +There is no sort of whiteness in all the hues under the sun at all like +the whiteness of Monsieur Rigaud’s face as it was then. Neither is there +any expression of the human countenance at all like that expression in +every little line of which the frightened heart is seen to beat. Both +are conventionally compared with death; but the difference is the whole +deep gulf between the struggle done, and the fight at its most desperate +extremity. + +He lighted another of his paper cigars at his companion’s; put it +tightly between his teeth; covered his head with a soft slouched hat; +threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder again; and walked out into +the side gallery on which the door opened, without taking any further +notice of Signor Cavalletto. As to that little man himself, his whole +attention had become absorbed in getting near the door and looking out +at it. Precisely as a beast might approach the opened gate of his den +and eye the freedom beyond, he passed those few moments in watching and +peering, until the door was closed upon him. + +There was an officer in command of the soldiers; a stout, serviceable, +profoundly calm man, with his drawn sword in his hand, smoking a cigar. +He very briefly directed the placing of Monsieur Rigaud in the midst of +the party, put himself with consummate indifference at their head, gave +the word ‘march!’ and so they all went jingling down the staircase. The +door clashed--the key turned--and a ray of unusual light, and a breath +of unusual air, seemed to have passed through the jail, vanishing in a +tiny wreath of smoke from the cigar. + +Still, in his captivity, like a lower animal--like some impatient ape, +or roused bear of the smaller species--the prisoner, now left solitary, +had jumped upon the ledge, to lose no glimpse of this departure. As he +yet stood clasping the grate with both hands, an uproar broke upon his +hearing; yells, shrieks, oaths, threats, execrations, all comprehended +in it, though (as in a storm) nothing but a raging swell of sound +distinctly heard. + +Excited into a still greater resemblance to a caged wild animal by his +anxiety to know more, the prisoner leaped nimbly down, ran round the +chamber, leaped nimbly up again, clasped the grate and tried to shake +it, leaped down and ran, leaped up and listened, and never rested until +the noise, becoming more and more distant, had died away. How many +better prisoners have worn their noble hearts out so; no man thinking +of it; not even the beloved of their souls realising it; great kings +and governors, who had made them captive, careering in the sunlight +jauntily, and men cheering them on. Even the said great personages dying +in bed, making exemplary ends and sounding speeches; and polite history, +more servile than their instruments, embalming them! + +At last, John Baptist, now able to choose his own spot within the +compass of those walls for the exercise of his faculty of going to sleep +when he would, lay down upon the bench, with his face turned over on his +crossed arms, and slumbered. In his submission, in his lightness, in his +good humour, in his short-lived passion, in his easy contentment with +hard bread and hard stones, in his ready sleep, in his fits and starts, +altogether a true son of the land that gave him birth. + +The wide stare stared itself out for one while; the Sun went down in +a red, green, golden glory; the stars came out in the heavens, and the +fire-flies mimicked them in the lower air, as men may feebly imitate +the goodness of a better order of beings; the long dusty roads and the +interminable plains were in repose--and so deep a hush was on the sea, +that it scarcely whispered of the time when it shall give up its dead. + + + + +CHAPTER 2 Fellow Travellers + + +‘No more of yesterday’s howling over yonder to-day, Sir; is there?’ + +‘I have heard none.’ + +‘Then you may be sure there _is_ none. When these people howl, they howl +to be heard.’ + +‘Most people do, I suppose.’ + +‘Ah! but these people are always howling. Never happy otherwise.’ + +‘Do you mean the Marseilles people?’ + +‘I mean the French people. They’re always at it. As to Marseilles, we +know what Marseilles is. It sent the most insurrectionary tune into the +world that was ever composed. It couldn’t exist without allonging and +marshonging to something or other--victory or death, or blazes, or +something.’ + +The speaker, with a whimsical good humour upon him all the time, looked +over the parapet-wall with the greatest disparagement of Marseilles; and +taking up a determined position by putting his hands in his pockets and +rattling his money at it, apostrophised it with a short laugh. + +‘Allong and marshong, indeed. It would be more creditable to you, +I think, to let other people allong and marshong about their lawful +business, instead of shutting ‘em up in quarantine!’ + +‘Tiresome enough,’ said the other. ‘But we shall be out to-day.’ + +‘Out to-day!’ repeated the first. ‘It’s almost an aggravation of the +enormity, that we shall be out to-day. Out! What have we ever been in +for?’ + +‘For no very strong reason, I must say. But as we come from the East, +and as the East is the country of the plague--’ + +‘The plague!’ repeated the other. ‘That’s my grievance. I have had the +plague continually, ever since I have been here. I am like a sane man +shut up in a madhouse; I can’t stand the suspicion of the thing. I came +here as well as ever I was in my life; but to suspect me of the plague +is to give me the plague. And I have had it--and I have got it.’ + +‘You bear it very well, Mr Meagles,’ said the second speaker, smiling. + +‘No. If you knew the real state of the case, that’s the last observation +you would think of making. I have been waking up night after night, and +saying, _now_ I have got it, _now_ it has developed itself, _now_ I am +in for it, _now_ these fellows are making out their case for their +precautions. Why, I’d as soon have a spit put through me, and be stuck +upon a card in a collection of beetles, as lead the life I have been +leading here.’ + +‘Well, Mr Meagles, say no more about it now it’s over,’ urged a cheerful +feminine voice. + +‘Over!’ repeated Mr Meagles, who appeared (though without any +ill-nature) to be in that peculiar state of mind in which the last word +spoken by anybody else is a new injury. ‘Over! and why should I say no +more about it because it’s over?’ + +It was Mrs Meagles who had spoken to Mr Meagles; and Mrs Meagles was, +like Mr Meagles, comely and healthy, with a pleasant English face which +had been looking at homely things for five-and-fifty years or more, and +shone with a bright reflection of them. + +‘There! Never mind, Father, never mind!’ said Mrs Meagles. ‘For goodness +sake content yourself with Pet.’ + +‘With Pet?’ repeated Mr Meagles in his injured vein. Pet, however, +being close behind him, touched him on the shoulder, and Mr Meagles +immediately forgave Marseilles from the bottom of his heart. + +Pet was about twenty. A fair girl with rich brown hair hanging free in +natural ringlets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and wonderful eyes; +so large, so soft, so bright, set to such perfection in her kind good +head. She was round and fresh and dimpled and spoilt, and there was in +Pet an air of timidity and dependence which was the best weakness in +the world, and gave her the only crowning charm a girl so pretty and +pleasant could have been without. + +‘Now, I ask you,’ said Mr Meagles in the blandest confidence, falling +back a step himself, and handing his daughter a step forward to +illustrate his question: ‘I ask you simply, as between man and man, +you know, DID you ever hear of such damned nonsense as putting Pet in +quarantine?’ + +‘It has had the result of making even quarantine enjoyable.’ + +‘Come!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘that’s something to be sure. I am obliged to +you for that remark. Now, Pet, my darling, you had better go along with +Mother and get ready for the boat. The officer of health, and a variety +of humbugs in cocked hats, are coming off to let us out of this at last: +and all we jail-birds are to breakfast together in something approaching +to a Christian style again, before we take wing for our different +destinations. Tattycoram, stick you close to your young mistress.’ + +He spoke to a handsome girl with lustrous dark hair and eyes, and very +neatly dressed, who replied with a half curtsey as she passed off in the +train of Mrs Meagles and Pet. They crossed the bare scorched terrace +all three together, and disappeared through a staring white archway. +Mr Meagles’s companion, a grave dark man of forty, still stood looking +towards this archway after they were gone; until Mr Meagles tapped him +on the arm. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said he, starting. + +‘Not at all,’ said Mr Meagles. + +They took one silent turn backward and forward in the shade of the wall, +getting, at the height on which the quarantine barracks are placed, what +cool refreshment of sea breeze there was at seven in the morning. Mr +Meagles’s companion resumed the conversation. + +‘May I ask you,’ he said, ‘what is the name of--’ + +‘Tattycoram?’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I have not the least idea.’ + +‘I thought,’ said the other, ‘that--’ + +‘Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles again. + +‘Thank you--that Tattycoram was a name; and I have several times +wondered at the oddity of it.’ + +‘Why, the fact is,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘Mrs Meagles and myself are, you +see, practical people.’ + +‘That you have frequently mentioned in the course of the agreeable and +interesting conversations we have had together, walking up and down on +these stones,’ said the other, with a half smile breaking through the +gravity of his dark face. + +‘Practical people. So one day, five or six years ago now, when we took +Pet to church at the Foundling--you have heard of the Foundling Hospital +in London? Similar to the Institution for the Found Children in Paris?’ + +‘I have seen it.’ + +‘Well! One day when we took Pet to church there to hear the +music--because, as practical people, it is the business of our lives to +show her everything that we think can please her--Mother (my usual name +for Mrs Meagles) began to cry so, that it was necessary to take her out. +“What’s the matter, Mother?” said I, when we had brought her a little +round: “you are frightening Pet, my dear.” “Yes, I know that, Father,” + says Mother, “but I think it’s through my loving her so much, that it +ever came into my head.” “That ever what came into your head, Mother?” + “O dear, dear!” cried Mother, breaking out again, “when I saw all those +children ranged tier above tier, and appealing from the father none of +them has ever known on earth, to the great Father of us all in Heaven, +I thought, does any wretched mother ever come here, and look among those +young faces, wondering which is the poor child she brought into this +forlorn world, never through all its life to know her love, her kiss, +her face, her voice, even her name!” Now that was practical in Mother, +and I told her so. I said, “Mother, that’s what I call practical in you, +my dear.”’ + +The other, not unmoved, assented. + +‘So I said next day: Now, Mother, I have a proposition to make that I +think you’ll approve of. Let us take one of those same little children +to be a little maid to Pet. We are practical people. So if we should +find her temper a little defective, or any of her ways a little wide +of ours, we shall know what we have to take into account. We shall +know what an immense deduction must be made from all the influences and +experiences that have formed us--no parents, no child-brother or sister, +no individuality of home, no Glass Slipper, or Fairy Godmother. And +that’s the way we came by Tattycoram.’ + +‘And the name itself--’ + +‘By George!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I was forgetting the name itself. Why, +she was called in the Institution, Harriet Beadle--an arbitrary name, +of course. Now, Harriet we changed into Hattey, and then into Tatty, +because, as practical people, we thought even a playful name might be +a new thing to her, and might have a softening and affectionate kind of +effect, don’t you see? As to Beadle, that I needn’t say was wholly out +of the question. If there is anything that is not to be tolerated on +any terms, anything that is a type of Jack-in-office insolence and +absurdity, anything that represents in coats, waistcoats, and big sticks +our English holding on by nonsense after every one has found it out, it +is a beadle. You haven’t seen a beadle lately?’ + +‘As an Englishman who has been more than twenty years in China, no.’ + +‘Then,’ said Mr Meagles, laying his forefinger on his companion’s breast +with great animation, ‘don’t you see a beadle, now, if you can help it. +Whenever I see a beadle in full fig, coming down a street on a Sunday +at the head of a charity school, I am obliged to turn and run away, or +I should hit him. The name of Beadle being out of the question, and the +originator of the Institution for these poor foundlings having been a +blessed creature of the name of Coram, we gave that name to Pet’s little +maid. At one time she was Tatty, and at one time she was Coram, until we +got into a way of mixing the two names together, and now she is always +Tattycoram.’ + +‘Your daughter,’ said the other, when they had taken another silent turn +to and fro, and, after standing for a moment at the wall glancing down +at the sea, had resumed their walk, ‘is your only child, I know, Mr +Meagles. May I ask you--in no impertinent curiosity, but because I have +had so much pleasure in your society, may never in this labyrinth of +a world exchange a quiet word with you again, and wish to preserve an +accurate remembrance of you and yours--may I ask you, if I have not +gathered from your good wife that you have had other children?’ + +‘No. No,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not exactly other children. One other +child.’ + +‘I am afraid I have inadvertently touched upon a tender theme.’ + +‘Never mind,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘If I am grave about it, I am not at all +sorrowful. It quiets me for a moment, but does not make me unhappy. Pet +had a twin sister who died when we could just see her eyes--exactly like +Pet’s--above the table, as she stood on tiptoe holding by it.’ + +‘Ah! indeed, indeed!’ + +‘Yes, and being practical people, a result has gradually sprung up in +the minds of Mrs Meagles and myself which perhaps you may--or perhaps +you may not--understand. Pet and her baby sister were so exactly alike, +and so completely one, that in our thoughts we have never been able +to separate them since. It would be of no use to tell us that our dead +child was a mere infant. We have changed that child according to the +changes in the child spared to us and always with us. As Pet has grown, +that child has grown; as Pet has become more sensible and womanly, her +sister has become more sensible and womanly by just the same degrees. +It would be as hard to convince me that if I was to pass into the other +world to-morrow, I should not, through the mercy of God, be received +there by a daughter, just like Pet, as to persuade me that Pet herself +is not a reality at my side.’ + +‘I understand you,’ said the other, gently. + +‘As to her,’ pursued her father, ‘the sudden loss of her little picture +and playfellow, and her early association with that mystery in which we +all have our equal share, but which is not often so forcibly presented +to a child, has necessarily had some influence on her character. Then, +her mother and I were not young when we married, and Pet has always had +a sort of grown-up life with us, though we have tried to adapt ourselves +to her. We have been advised more than once when she has been a +little ailing, to change climate and air for her as often as we +could--especially at about this time of her life--and to keep her +amused. So, as I have no need to stick at a bank-desk now (though I have +been poor enough in my time I assure you, or I should have married Mrs +Meagles long before), we go trotting about the world. This is how you +found us staring at the Nile, and the Pyramids, and the Sphinxes, and +the Desert, and all the rest of it; and this is how Tattycoram will be a +greater traveller in course of time than Captain Cook.’ + +‘I thank you,’ said the other, ‘very heartily for your confidence.’ + +‘Don’t mention it,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘I am sure you are quite +welcome. And now, Mr Clennam, perhaps I may ask you whether you have yet +come to a decision where to go next?’ + +‘Indeed, no. I am such a waif and stray everywhere, that I am liable to +be drifted where any current may set.’ + +‘It’s extraordinary to me--if you’ll excuse my freedom in saying +so--that you don’t go straight to London,’ said Mr Meagles, in the tone +of a confidential adviser. + +‘Perhaps I shall.’ + +‘Ay! But I mean with a will.’ + +‘I have no will. That is to say,’--he coloured a little,--‘next to none +that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken, not bent; +heavily ironed with an object on which I was never consulted and which +was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before I +was of age, and exiled there until my father’s death there, a year ago; +always grinding in a mill I always hated; what is to be expected from me +in middle life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished +before I could sound the words.’ + +‘Light ‘em up again!’ said Mr Meagles. + +‘Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and +mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced +everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, +had no existence. Strict people as the phrase is, professors of a stern +religion, their very religion was a gloomy sacrifice of tastes and +sympathies that were never their own, offered up as a part of a bargain +for the security of their possessions. Austere faces, inexorable +discipline, penance in this world and terror in the next--nothing +graceful or gentle anywhere, and the void in my cowed heart +everywhere--this was my childhood, if I may so misuse the word as to +apply it to such a beginning of life.’ + +‘Really though?’ said Mr Meagles, made very uncomfortable by the picture +offered to his imagination. ‘That was a tough commencement. But come! +You must now study, and profit by, all that lies beyond it, like a +practical man.’ + +‘If the people who are usually called practical, were practical in your +direction--’ + +‘Why, so they are!’ said Mr Meagles. + +‘Are they indeed?’ + +‘Well, I suppose so,’ returned Mr Meagles, thinking about it. ‘Eh? One +can but _be_ practical, and Mrs Meagles and myself are nothing else.’ + +‘My unknown course is easier and more helpful than I had expected to +find it, then,’ said Clennam, shaking his head with his grave smile. +‘Enough of me. Here is the boat.’ + +The boat was filled with the cocked hats to which Mr Meagles entertained +a national objection; and the wearers of those cocked hats landed +and came up the steps, and all the impounded travellers congregated +together. There was then a mighty production of papers on the part of +the cocked hats, and a calling over of names, and great work of signing, +sealing, stamping, inking, and sanding, with exceedingly blurred, +gritty, and undecipherable results. Finally, everything was done +according to rule, and the travellers were at liberty to depart +whithersoever they would. + +They made little account of stare and glare, in the new pleasure of +recovering their freedom, but flitted across the harbour in gay boats, +and reassembled at a great hotel, whence the sun was excluded by closed +lattices, and where bare paved floors, lofty ceilings, and resounding +corridors tempered the intense heat. There, a great table in a great +room was soon profusely covered with a superb repast; and the quarantine +quarters became bare indeed, remembered among dainty dishes, southern +fruits, cooled wines, flowers from Genoa, snow from the mountain tops, +and all the colours of the rainbow flashing in the mirrors. + +‘But I bear those monotonous walls no ill-will now,’ said Mr Meagles. +‘One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind; I +dare say a prisoner begins to relent towards his prison, after he is let +out.’ + +They were about thirty in company, and all talking; but necessarily in +groups. Father and Mother Meagles sat with their daughter between them, +the last three on one side of the table: on the opposite side sat Mr +Clennam; a tall French gentleman with raven hair and beard, of a swart +and terrible, not to say genteelly diabolical aspect, but who had +shown himself the mildest of men; and a handsome young Englishwoman, +travelling quite alone, who had a proud observant face, and had either +withdrawn herself from the rest or been avoided by the rest--nobody, +herself excepted perhaps, could have quite decided which. The rest +of the party were of the usual materials: travellers on business, and +travellers for pleasure; officers from India on leave; merchants in +the Greek and Turkey trades; a clerical English husband in a meek +strait-waistcoat, on a wedding trip with his young wife; a majestic +English mama and papa, of the patrician order, with a family of three +growing-up daughters, who were keeping a journal for the confusion of +their fellow-creatures; and a deaf old English mother, tough in travel, +with a very decidedly grown-up daughter indeed, which daughter went +sketching about the universe in the expectation of ultimately toning +herself off into the married state. + +The reserved Englishwoman took up Mr Meagles in his last remark. + +‘Do you mean that a prisoner forgives his prison?’ said she, slowly and +with emphasis. + + +‘That was my speculation, Miss Wade. I don’t pretend to know positively +how a prisoner might feel. I never was one before.’ + +‘Mademoiselle doubts,’ said the French gentleman in his own language, +‘it’s being so easy to forgive?’ + +‘I do.’ + +Pet had to translate this passage to Mr Meagles, who never by any +accident acquired any knowledge whatever of the language of any country +into which he travelled. ‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Dear me! But that’s a pity, +isn’t it?’ + +‘That I am not credulous?’ said Miss Wade. + +‘Not exactly that. Put it another way. That you can’t believe it easy to +forgive.’ + +‘My experience,’ she quietly returned, ‘has been correcting my belief +in many respects, for some years. It is our natural progress, I have +heard.’ + +‘Well, well! But it’s not natural to bear malice, I hope?’ said Mr +Meagles, cheerily. + +‘If I had been shut up in any place to pine and suffer, I should always +hate that place and wish to burn it down, or raze it to the ground. I +know no more.’ + +‘Strong, sir?’ said Mr Meagles to the Frenchman; it being another of his +habits to address individuals of all nations in idiomatic English, with +a perfect conviction that they were bound to understand it somehow. +‘Rather forcible in our fair friend, you’ll agree with me, I think?’ + +The French gentleman courteously replied, ‘Plait-il?’ To which Mr +Meagles returned with much satisfaction, ‘You are right. My opinion.’ + +The breakfast beginning by-and-by to languish, Mr Meagles made the +company a speech. It was short enough and sensible enough, considering +that it was a speech at all, and hearty. It merely went to the effect +that as they had all been thrown together by chance, and had all +preserved a good understanding together, and were now about to disperse, +and were not likely ever to find themselves all together again, what +could they do better than bid farewell to one another, and give one +another good-speed in a simultaneous glass of cool champagne all round +the table? It was done, and with a general shaking of hands the assembly +broke up for ever. + +The solitary young lady all this time had said no more. She rose with +the rest, and silently withdrew to a remote corner of the great room, +where she sat herself on a couch in a window, seeming to watch the +reflection of the water as it made a silver quivering on the bars of the +lattice. She sat, turned away from the whole length of the apartment, as +if she were lonely of her own haughty choice. And yet it would have been +as difficult as ever to say, positively, whether she avoided the rest, +or was avoided. + +The shadow in which she sat, falling like a gloomy veil across her +forehead, accorded very well with the character of her beauty. One could +hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the arched +dark eyebrows, and the folds of dark hair, without wondering what its +expression would be if a change came over it. That it could soften or +relent, appeared next to impossible. That it could deepen into anger or +any extreme of defiance, and that it must change in that direction when +it changed at all, would have been its peculiar impression upon most +observers. It was dressed and trimmed into no ceremony of expression. +Although not an open face, there was no pretence in it. ‘I am +self-contained and self-reliant; your opinion is nothing to me; I have +no interest in you, care nothing for you, and see and hear you with +indifference’--this it said plainly. It said so in the proud eyes, in +the lifted nostril, in the handsome but compressed and even cruel mouth. +Cover either two of those channels of expression, and the third would +have said so still. Mask them all, and the mere turn of the head would +have shown an unsubduable nature. + +Pet had moved up to her (she had been the subject of remark among her +family and Mr Clennam, who were now the only other occupants of the +room), and was standing at her side. + +‘Are you’--she turned her eyes, and Pet faltered--‘expecting any one to +meet you here, Miss Wade?’ + +‘I? No.’ + +‘Father is sending to the Poste Restante. Shall he have the pleasure of +directing the messenger to ask if there are any letters for you?’ + +‘I thank him, but I know there can be none.’ + +‘We are afraid,’ said Pet, sitting down beside her, shyly and half +tenderly, ‘that you will feel quite deserted when we are all gone.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘Not,’ said Pet, apologetically and embarrassed by her eyes, ‘not, of +course, that we are any company to you, or that we have been able to be +so, or that we thought you wished it.’ + +‘I have not intended to make it understood that I did wish it.’ + +‘No. Of course. But--in short,’ said Pet, timidly touching her hand as +it lay impassive on the sofa between them, ‘will you not allow Father to +tender you any slight assistance or service? He will be very glad.’ + +‘Very glad,’ said Mr Meagles, coming forward with his wife and Clennam. +‘Anything short of speaking the language, I shall be delighted to +undertake, I am sure.’ + +‘I am obliged to you,’ she returned, ‘but my arrangements are made, and +I prefer to go my own way in my own manner.’ + +‘_Do_ you?’ said Mr Meagles to himself, as he surveyed her with a puzzled +look. ‘Well! There’s character in that, too.’ + +‘I am not much used to the society of young ladies, and I am afraid I +may not show my appreciation of it as others might. A pleasant journey +to you. Good-bye!’ + +She would not have put out her hand, it seemed, but that Mr Meagles put +out his so straight before her that she could not pass it. She put hers +in it, and it lay there just as it had lain upon the couch. + +‘Good-bye!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘This is the last good-bye upon the list, +for Mother and I have just said it to Mr Clennam here, and he only waits +to say it to Pet. Good-bye! We may never meet again.’ + +‘In our course through life we shall meet the people who are coming to +meet _us_, from many strange places and by many strange roads,’ was the +composed reply; ‘and what it is set to us to do to them, and what it is +set to them to do to us, will all be done.’ + +There was something in the manner of these words that jarred upon Pet’s +ear. It implied that what was to be done was necessarily evil, and it +caused her to say in a whisper, ‘O Father!’ and to shrink childishly, in +her spoilt way, a little closer to him. This was not lost on the +speaker. + +‘Your pretty daughter,’ she said, ‘starts to think of such things. Yet,’ +looking full upon her, ‘you may be sure that there are men and women +already on their road, who have their business to do with _you_, and who +will do it. Of a certainty they will do it. They may be coming hundreds, +thousands, of miles over the sea there; they may be close at hand now; +they may be coming, for anything you know or anything you can do to +prevent it, from the vilest sweepings of this very town.’ + +With the coldest of farewells, and with a certain worn expression on her +beauty that gave it, though scarcely yet in its prime, a wasted look, +she left the room. + +Now, there were many stairs and passages that she had to traverse in +passing from that part of the spacious house to the chamber she had +secured for her own occupation. When she had almost completed the +journey, and was passing along the gallery in which her room was, she +heard an angry sound of muttering and sobbing. A door stood open, and +within she saw the attendant upon the girl she had just left; the maid +with the curious name. + +She stood still, to look at this maid. A sullen, passionate girl! Her +rich black hair was all about her face, her face was flushed and hot, +and as she sobbed and raged, she plucked at her lips with an unsparing +hand. + +‘Selfish brutes!’ said the girl, sobbing and heaving between whiles. +‘Not caring what becomes of me! Leaving me here hungry and thirsty and +tired, to starve, for anything they care! Beasts! Devils! Wretches!’ + +‘My poor girl, what is the matter?’ + +She looked up suddenly, with reddened eyes, and with her hands +suspended, in the act of pinching her neck, freshly disfigured with +great scarlet blots. ‘It’s nothing to you what’s the matter. It don’t +signify to any one.’ + +‘O yes it does; I am sorry to see you so.’ + +‘You are not sorry,’ said the girl. ‘You are glad. You know you are +glad. I never was like this but twice over in the quarantine yonder; and +both times you found me. I am afraid of you.’ + +‘Afraid of me?’ + +‘Yes. You seem to come like my own anger, my own malice, my +own--whatever it is--I don’t know what it is. But I am ill-used, I am +ill-used, I am ill-used!’ Here the sobs and the tears, and the tearing +hand, which had all been suspended together since the first surprise, +went on together anew. + +The visitor stood looking at her with a strange attentive smile. It was +wonderful to see the fury of the contest in the girl, and the bodily +struggle she made as if she were rent by the Demons of old. + +‘I am younger than she is by two or three years, and yet it’s me that +looks after her, as if I was old, and it’s she that’s always petted and +called Baby! I detest the name. I hate her! They make a fool of her, +they spoil her. She thinks of nothing but herself, she thinks no more of +me than if I was a stock and a stone!’ So the girl went on. + +‘You must have patience.’ + +‘I _won’t_ have patience!’ + +‘If they take much care of themselves, and little or none of you, you +must not mind it.’ + +I _will_ mind it.’ + +‘Hush! Be more prudent. You forget your dependent position.’ + +‘I don’t care for that. I’ll run away. I’ll do some mischief. I won’t +bear it; I can’t bear it; I shall die if I try to bear it!’ + +The observer stood with her hand upon her own bosom, looking at the +girl, as one afflicted with a diseased part might curiously watch the +dissection and exposition of an analogous case. + +The girl raged and battled with all the force of her youth and fulness +of life, until by little and little her passionate exclamations trailed +off into broken murmurs as if she were in pain. By corresponding degrees +she sank into a chair, then upon her knees, then upon the ground beside +the bed, drawing the coverlet with her, half to hide her shamed head and +wet hair in it, and half, as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have +nothing to take to her repentant breast. + +‘Go away from me, go away from me! When my temper comes upon me, I +am mad. I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough, and +sometimes I do try hard enough, and at other times I don’t and won’t. +What have I said! I knew when I said it, it was all lies. They think I +am being taken care of somewhere, and have all I want. They are nothing +but good to me. I love them dearly; no people could ever be kinder to a +thankless creature than they always are to me. Do, do go away, for I am +afraid of you. I am afraid of myself when I feel my temper coming, and I +am as much afraid of you. Go away from me, and let me pray and cry +myself better!’ + +The day passed on; and again the wide stare stared itself out; and the +hot night was on Marseilles; and through it the caravan of the morning, +all dispersed, went their appointed ways. And thus ever by day and +night, under the sun and under the stars, climbing the dusty hills and +toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by +sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one +another, move all we restless travellers through the pilgrimage of life. + + + + +CHAPTER 3. Home + + +It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening +church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked +and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous. +Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of +the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire +despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down +almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling, +as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round. +Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish +relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no +rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient +world--all _taboo_ with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South +Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home +again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe +but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind, +or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the +monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think +what a weary life he led, and make the best of it--or the worst, +according to the probabilities. + +At such a happy time, so propitious to the interests of religion and +morality, Mr Arthur Clennam, newly arrived from Marseilles by way of +Dover, and by Dover coach the Blue-eyed Maid, sat in the window of a +coffee-house on Ludgate Hill. Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded +him, frowning as heavily on the streets they composed, as if they were +every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender’s story, who +blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night. Fifty +thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that +fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night, would be +corrupt on Sunday morning; albeit my lord, their county member, was +amazed that they failed to sleep in company with their butcher’s meat. +Miles of close wells and pits of houses, where the inhabitants gasped +for air, stretched far away towards every point of the compass. Through +the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed, in the place of +a fine fresh river. What secular want could the million or so of +human beings whose daily labour, six days in the week, lay among these +Arcadian objects, from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape +between the cradle and the grave--what secular want could they possibly +have upon their seventh day? Clearly they could want nothing but a +stringent policeman. + +Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee-house on Ludgate Hill, +counting one of the neighbouring bells, making sentences and burdens of +songs out of it in spite of himself, and wondering how many sick +people it might be the death of in the course of the year. As the hour +approached, its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating. +At the quarter, it went off into a condition of deadly-lively +importunity, urging the populace in a voluble manner to Come to church, +Come to church, Come to church! At the ten minutes, it became aware +that the congregation would be scanty, and slowly hammered out in low +spirits, They _won’t_ come, they _won’t_ come, they _won’t_ come! At the +five minutes, it abandoned hope, and shook every house in the +neighbourhood for three hundred seconds, with one dismal swing per +second, as a groan of despair. + +‘Thank Heaven!’ said Clennam, when the hour struck, and the bell +stopped. + +But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays, and the +procession would not stop with the bell, but continued to march on. +‘Heaven forgive me,’ said he, ‘and those who trained me. How I have +hated this day!’ + +There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood, when he sat with his hands +before him, scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which commenced +business with the poor child by asking him in its title, why he was +going to Perdition?--a piece of curiosity that he really, in a frock and +drawers, was not in a condition to satisfy--and which, for the further +attraction of his infant mind, had a parenthesis in every other line +with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 & +7. There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood, when, like a military +deserter, he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times +a day, morally handcuffed to another boy; and when he would willingly +have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or +two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh. There was the +interminable Sunday of his nonage; when his mother, stern of face and +unrelenting of heart, would sit all day behind a Bible--bound, like her +own construction of it, in the hardest, barest, and straitest boards, +with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain, and a +wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves--as if it, of +all books! were a fortification against sweetness of temper, natural +affection, and gentle intercourse. There was the resentful Sunday of a +little later, when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy +length of the day, with a sullen sense of injury in his heart, and no +more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than +if he had been bred among idolaters. There was a legion of Sundays, +all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification, slowly passing +before him. + +‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said a brisk waiter, rubbing the table. ‘Wish see +bed-room?’ + +‘Yes. I have just made up my mind to do it.’ + +‘Chaymaid!’ cried the waiter. ‘Gelen box num seven wish see room!’ + +‘Stay!’ said Clennam, rousing himself. ‘I was not thinking of what I +said; I answered mechanically. I am not going to sleep here. I am going +home.’ + +‘Deed, sir? Chaymaid! Gelen box num seven, not go sleep here, gome.’ + +He sat in the same place as the day died, looking at the dull houses +opposite, and thinking, if the disembodied spirits of former inhabitants +were ever conscious of them, how they must pity themselves for their old +places of imprisonment. Sometimes a face would appear behind the dingy +glass of a window, and would fade away into the gloom as if it had seen +enough of life and had vanished out of it. Presently the rain began to +fall in slanting lines between him and those houses, and people began +to collect under cover of the public passage opposite, and to look out +hopelessly at the sky as the rain dropped thicker and faster. Then wet +umbrellas began to appear, draggled skirts, and mud. What the mud had +been doing with itself, or where it came from, who could say? But it +seemed to collect in a moment, as a crowd will, and in five minutes to +have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam. The lamplighter was +going his rounds now; and as the fiery jets sprang up under his touch, +one might have fancied them astonished at being suffered to introduce +any show of brightness into such a dismal scene. + +Mr Arthur Clennam took up his hat and buttoned his coat, and walked out. +In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, +and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful +form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale +smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to +the gutters. + +He crossed by St Paul’s and went down, at a long angle, almost to the +water’s edge, through some of the crooked and descending streets which +lie (and lay more crookedly and closely then) between the river and +Cheapside. Passing, now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful +Company, now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church that +seemed to be waiting for some adventurous Belzoni to dig it out and +discover its history; passing silent warehouses and wharves, and here +and there a narrow alley leading to the river, where a wretched little +bill, FOUND DROWNED, was weeping on the wet wall; he came at last to the +house he sought. An old brick house, so dingy as to be all but black, +standing by itself within a gateway. Before it, a square court-yard +where a shrub or two and a patch of grass were as rank (which is saying +much) as the iron railings enclosing them were rusty; behind it, +a jumble of roots. It was a double house, with long, narrow, +heavily-framed windows. Many years ago, it had had it in its mind to +slide down sideways; it had been propped up, however, and was leaning on +some half-dozen gigantic crutches: which gymnasium for the neighbouring +cats, weather-stained, smoke-blackened, and overgrown with weeds, +appeared in these latter days to be no very sure reliance. + +‘Nothing changed,’ said the traveller, stopping to look round. ‘Dark and +miserable as ever. A light in my mother’s window, which seems never to +have been extinguished since I came home twice a year from school, and +dragged my box over this pavement. Well, well, well!’ + +He went up to the door, which had a projecting canopy in carved work +of festooned jack-towels and children’s heads with water on the brain, +designed after a once-popular monumental pattern, and knocked. A +shuffling step was soon heard on the stone floor of the hall, and the +door was opened by an old man, bent and dried, but with keen eyes. + +He had a candle in his hand, and he held it up for a moment to assist +his keen eyes. ‘Ah, Mr Arthur?’ he said, without any emotion, ‘you are +come at last? Step in.’ + +Mr Arthur stepped in and shut the door. + +‘Your figure is filled out, and set,’ said the old man, turning to look +at him with the light raised again, and shaking his head; ‘but you don’t +come up to your father in my opinion. Nor yet your mother.’ + +‘How is my mother?’ + +‘She is as she always is now. Keeps her room when not actually +bedridden, and hasn’t been out of it fifteen times in as many years, +Arthur.’ They had walked into a spare, meagre dining-room. The old man +had put the candlestick upon the table, and, supporting his right elbow +with his left hand, was smoothing his leathern jaws while he looked at +the visitor. The visitor offered his hand. The old man took it coldly +enough, and seemed to prefer his jaws, to which he returned as soon as +he could. + +‘I doubt if your mother will approve of your coming home on the Sabbath, +Arthur,’ he said, shaking his head warily. + +‘You wouldn’t have me go away again?’ + +‘Oh! I? I? I am not the master. It’s not what _I_ would have. I have +stood between your father and mother for a number of years. I don’t +pretend to stand between your mother and you.’ + +‘Will you tell her that I have come home?’ + +‘Yes, Arthur, yes. Oh, to be sure! I’ll tell her that you have come +home. Please to wait here. You won’t find the room changed.’ He took +another candle from a cupboard, lighted it, left the first on the table, +and went upon his errand. He was a short, bald old man, in a +high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches, and long drab +gaiters. He might, from his dress, have been either clerk or servant, +and in fact had long been both. There was nothing about him in the way +of decoration but a watch, which was lowered into the depths of its +proper pocket by an old black ribbon, and had a tarnished copper key +moored above it, to show where it was sunk. His head was awry, and +he had a one-sided, crab-like way with him, as if his foundations had +yielded at about the same time as those of the house, and he ought to +have been propped up in a similar manner. + +‘How weak am I,’ said Arthur Clennam, when he was gone, ‘that I could +shed tears at this reception! I, who have never experienced anything +else; who have never expected anything else.’ + +He not only could, but did. It was the momentary yielding of a nature +that had been disappointed from the dawn of its perceptions, but had not +quite given up all its hopeful yearnings yet. He subdued it, took up the +candle, and examined the room. The old articles of furniture were in +their old places; the Plagues of Egypt, much the dimmer for the fly and +smoke plagues of London, were framed and glazed upon the walls. There +was the old cellaret with nothing in it, lined with lead, like a sort of +coffin in compartments; there was the old dark closet, also with nothing +in it, of which he had been many a time the sole contents, in days of +punishment, when he had regarded it as the veritable entrance to that +bourne to which the tract had found him galloping. There was the large, +hard-featured clock on the sideboard, which he used to see bending its +figured brows upon him with a savage joy when he was behind-hand with +his lessons, and which, when it was wound up once a week with an iron +handle, used to sound as if it were growling in ferocious anticipation +of the miseries into which it would bring him. But here was the old man +come back, saying, ‘Arthur, I’ll go before and light you.’ + +Arthur followed him up the staircase, which was panelled off into spaces +like so many mourning tablets, into a dim bed-chamber, the floor of +which had gradually so sunk and settled, that the fire-place was in a +dell. On a black bier-like sofa in this hollow, propped up behind with +one great angular black bolster like the block at a state execution in +the good old times, sat his mother in a widow’s dress. + +She and his father had been at variance from his earliest remembrance. +To sit speechless himself in the midst of rigid silence, glancing in +dread from the one averted face to the other, had been the peacefullest +occupation of his childhood. She gave him one glassy kiss, and four +stiff fingers muffled in worsted. This embrace concluded, he sat down on +the opposite side of her little table. There was a fire in the grate, +as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a kettle on +the hob, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a +little mound of damped ashes on the top of the fire, and another little +mound swept together under the grate, as there had been night and day +for fifteen years. There was a smell of black dye in the airless room, +which the fire had been drawing out of the crape and stuff of the +widow’s dress for fifteen months, and out of the bier-like sofa for +fifteen years. + +‘Mother, this is a change from your old active habits.’ + +‘The world has narrowed to these dimensions, Arthur,’ she replied, +glancing round the room. ‘It is well for me that I never set my heart +upon its hollow vanities.’ + +The old influence of her presence and her stern strong voice, so +gathered about her son, that he felt conscious of a renewal of the timid +chill and reserve of his childhood. + +‘Do you never leave your room, mother?’ + +‘What with my rheumatic affection, and what with its attendant debility +or nervous weakness--names are of no matter now--I have lost the use +of my limbs. I never leave my room. I have not been outside this door +for--tell him for how long,’ she said, speaking over her shoulder. + +‘A dozen year next Christmas,’ returned a cracked voice out of the +dimness behind. + +‘Is that Affery?’ said Arthur, looking towards it. + +The cracked voice replied that it was Affery: and an old woman came +forward into what doubtful light there was, and kissed her hand once; +then subsided again into the dimness. + +‘I am able,’ said Mrs Clennam, with a slight motion of her +worsted-muffled right hand toward a chair on wheels, standing before a +tall writing cabinet close shut up, ‘I am able to attend to my business +duties, and I am thankful for the privilege. It is a great privilege. +But no more of business on this day. It is a bad night, is it not?’ + +‘Yes, mother.’ + +‘Does it snow?’ + +‘Snow, mother? And we only yet in September?’ + +‘All seasons are alike to me,’ she returned, with a grim kind of +luxuriousness. ‘I know nothing of summer and winter, shut up here. +The Lord has been pleased to put me beyond all that.’ With her cold grey +eyes and her cold grey hair, and her immovable face, as stiff as the +folds of her stony head-dress,--her being beyond the reach of the +seasons seemed but a fit sequence to her being beyond the reach of all +changing emotions. + +On her little table lay two or three books, her handkerchief, a pair of +steel spectacles newly taken off, and an old-fashioned gold watch in a +heavy double case. Upon this last object her son’s eyes and her own now +rested together. + +‘I see that you received the packet I sent you on my father’s death, +safely, mother.’ + +‘You see.’ + +‘I never knew my father to show so much anxiety on any subject, as that +his watch should be sent straight to you.’ + +‘I keep it here as a remembrance of your father.’ + +‘It was not until the last, that he expressed the wish; when he could +only put his hand upon it, and very indistinctly say to me “your +mother.” A moment before, I thought him wandering in his mind, as he +had been for many hours--I think he had no consciousness of pain in his +short illness--when I saw him turn himself in his bed and try to open +it.’ + +‘Was your father, then, not wandering in his mind when he tried to open +it?’ + +‘No. He was quite sensible at that time.’ + +Mrs Clennam shook her head; whether in dismissal of the deceased or +opposing herself to her son’s opinion, was not clearly expressed. + +‘After my father’s death I opened it myself, thinking there might be, +for anything I knew, some memorandum there. However, as I need not tell +you, mother, there was nothing but the old silk watch-paper worked in +beads, which you found (no doubt) in its place between the cases, where +I found and left it.’ + +Mrs Clennam signified assent; then added, ‘No more of business on this +day,’ and then added, ‘Affery, it is nine o’clock.’ + +Upon this, the old woman cleared the little table, went out of the room, +and quickly returned with a tray on which was a dish of little rusks and +a small precise pat of butter, cool, symmetrical, white, and plump. The +old man who had been standing by the door in one attitude during the +whole interview, looking at the mother up-stairs as he had looked at the +son down-stairs, went out at the same time, and, after a longer absence, +returned with another tray on which was the greater part of a bottle +of port wine (which, to judge by his panting, he had brought from the +cellar), a lemon, a sugar-basin, and a spice box. With these materials +and the aid of the kettle, he filled a tumbler with a hot and +odorous mixture, measured out and compounded with as much nicety as a +physician’s prescription. Into this mixture Mrs Clennam dipped certain +of the rusks, and ate them; while the old woman buttered certain other +of the rusks, which were to be eaten alone. When the invalid had eaten +all the rusks and drunk all the mixture, the two trays were removed; +and the books and the candle, watch, handkerchief, and spectacles were +replaced upon the table. She then put on the spectacles and read certain +passages aloud from a book--sternly, fiercely, wrathfully--praying that +her enemies (she made them by her tone and manner expressly hers) might +be put to the edge of the sword, consumed by fire, smitten by plagues +and leprosy, that their bones might be ground to dust, and that they +might be utterly exterminated. As she read on, years seemed to fall +away from her son like the imaginings of a dream, and all the old dark +horrors of his usual preparation for the sleep of an innocent child to +overshadow him. + +She shut the book and remained for a little time with her face shaded by +her hand. So did the old man, otherwise still unchanged in attitude; so, +probably, did the old woman in her dimmer part of the room. Then the +sick woman was ready for bed. + +‘Good night, Arthur. Affery will see to your accommodation. Only touch +me, for my hand is tender.’ He touched the worsted muffling of her +hand--that was nothing; if his mother had been sheathed in brass there +would have been no new barrier between them--and followed the old man +and woman down-stairs. + +The latter asked him, when they were alone together among the heavy +shadows of the dining-room, would he have some supper? + +‘No, Affery, no supper.’ + +‘You shall if you like,’ said Affery. ‘There’s her tomorrow’s partridge +in the larder--her first this year; say the word and I’ll cook it.’ + +No, he had not long dined, and could eat nothing. + +‘Have something to drink, then,’ said Affery; ‘you shall have some of +her bottle of port, if you like. I’ll tell Jeremiah that you ordered me +to bring it you.’ + +No; nor would he have that, either. + +‘It’s no reason, Arthur,’ said the old woman, bending over him to +whisper, ‘that because I am afeared of my life of ‘em, you should be. +You’ve got half the property, haven’t you?’ + +‘Yes, yes.’ + +‘Well then, don’t you be cowed. You’re clever, Arthur, an’t you?’ + +He nodded, as she seemed to expect an answer in the affirmative. + +‘Then stand up against them! She’s awful clever, and none but a clever +one durst say a word to her. _He’s_ a clever one--oh, he’s a clever +one!--and he gives it her when he has a mind to’t, he does!’ + +‘Your husband does?’ + +‘Does? It makes me shake from head to foot, to hear him give it her. My +husband, Jeremiah Flintwinch, can conquer even your mother. What can he +be but a clever one to do that!’ + +His shuffling footstep coming towards them caused her to retreat to the +other end of the room. Though a tall, hard-favoured, sinewy old woman, +who in her youth might have enlisted in the Foot Guards without much +fear of discovery, she collapsed before the little keen-eyed crab-like +old man. + +‘Now, Affery,’ said he, ‘now, woman, what are you doing? Can’t you find +Master Arthur something or another to pick at?’ + +Master Arthur repeated his recent refusal to pick at anything. + +‘Very well, then,’ said the old man; ‘make his bed. Stir yourself.’ His +neck was so twisted that the knotted ends of his white cravat usually +dangled under one ear; his natural acerbity and energy, always +contending with a second nature of habitual repression, gave his +features a swollen and suffused look; and altogether, he had a weird +appearance of having hanged himself at one time or other, and of having +gone about ever since, halter and all, exactly as some timely hand had +cut him down. + +‘You’ll have bitter words together to-morrow, Arthur; you and your +mother,’ said Jeremiah. ‘Your having given up the business on your +father’s death--which she suspects, though we have left it to you to +tell her--won’t go off smoothly.’ + +‘I have given up everything in life for the business, and the time came +for me to give up that.’ + +‘Good!’ cried Jeremiah, evidently meaning Bad. ‘Very good! only don’t +expect me to stand between your mother and you, Arthur. I stood between +your mother and your father, fending off this, and fending off that, and +getting crushed and pounded betwixt em; and I’ve done with such work.’ + +‘You will never be asked to begin it again for me, Jeremiah.’ + +‘Good. I’m glad to hear it; because I should have had to decline it, if +I had been. That’s enough--as your mother says--and more than enough of +such matters on a Sabbath night. Affery, woman, have you found what you +want yet?’ + +She had been collecting sheets and blankets from a press, and hastened +to gather them up, and to reply, ‘Yes, Jeremiah.’ Arthur Clennam helped +her by carrying the load himself, wished the old man good night, and +went up-stairs with her to the top of the house. + +They mounted up and up, through the musty smell of an old close house, +little used, to a large garret bed-room. Meagre and spare, like all the +other rooms, it was even uglier and grimmer than the rest, by being the +place of banishment for the worn-out furniture. Its movables were ugly +old chairs with worn-out seats, and ugly old chairs without any seats; +a threadbare patternless carpet, a maimed table, a crippled wardrobe, +a lean set of fire-irons like the skeleton of a set deceased, a +washing-stand that looked as if it had stood for ages in a hail of +dirty soapsuds, and a bedstead with four bare atomies of posts, each +terminating in a spike, as if for the dismal accommodation of lodgers +who might prefer to impale themselves. Arthur opened the long low +window, and looked out upon the old blasted and blackened forest of +chimneys, and the old red glare in the sky, which had seemed to him once +upon a time but a nightly reflection of the fiery environment that was +presented to his childish fancy in all directions, let it look where it +would. + +He drew in his head again, sat down at the bedside, and looked on at +Affery Flintwinch making the bed. + +‘Affery, you were not married when I went away.’ + +She screwed her mouth into the form of saying ‘No,’ shook her head, and +proceeded to get a pillow into its case. + +‘How did it happen?’ + +‘Why, Jeremiah, o’ course,’ said Affery, with an end of the pillow-case +between her teeth. + +‘Of course he proposed it, but how did it all come about? I should have +thought that neither of you would have married; least of all should I +have thought of your marrying each other.’ + +‘No more should I,’ said Mrs Flintwinch, tying the pillow tightly in its +case. + +‘That’s what I mean. When did you begin to think otherwise?’ + +‘Never begun to think otherwise at all,’ said Mrs Flintwinch. + +Seeing, as she patted the pillow into its place on the bolster, that he +was still looking at her as if waiting for the rest of her reply, +she gave it a great poke in the middle, and asked, ‘How could I help +myself?’ + +‘How could you help yourself from being married!’ + +‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Flintwinch. ‘It was no doing o’ mine. I’d never +thought of it. I’d got something to do, without thinking, indeed! She +kept me to it (as well as he) when she could go about, and she could go +about then.’ + +‘Well?’ + +‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch. ‘That’s what I said myself. Well! What’s +the use of considering? If them two clever ones have made up their minds +to it, what’s left for _me_ to do? Nothing.’ + +‘Was it my mother’s project, then?’ + +‘The Lord bless you, Arthur, and forgive me the wish!’ cried Affery, +speaking always in a low tone. ‘If they hadn’t been both of a mind in +it, how could it ever have been? Jeremiah never courted me; t’ant likely +that he would, after living in the house with me and ordering me +about for as many years as he’d done. He said to me one day, he said, +“Affery,” he said, “now I am going to tell you something. What do you +think of the name of Flintwinch?” “What do I think of it?” I says. +“Yes,” he said, “because you’re going to take it,” he said. “Take it?” I +says. “Jere-_mi_-ah?” Oh! he’s a clever one!’ + +Mrs Flintwinch went on to spread the upper sheet over the bed, and the +blanket over that, and the counterpane over that, as if she had quite +concluded her story. + +‘Well?’ said Arthur again. + +‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch again. ‘How could I help myself? He said +to me, “Affery, you and me must be married, and I’ll tell you why. She’s +failing in health, and she’ll want pretty constant attendance up in +her room, and we shall have to be much with her, and there’ll be nobody +about now but ourselves when we’re away from her, and altogether it will +be more convenient. She’s of my opinion,” he said, “so if you’ll put +your bonnet on next Monday morning at eight, we’ll get it over.”’ Mrs +Flintwinch tucked up the bed. + +‘Well?’ + +‘Well?’ repeated Mrs Flintwinch, ‘I think so! I sits me down and says +it. Well!--Jeremiah then says to me, “As to banns, next Sunday being the +third time of asking (for I’ve put ‘em up a fortnight), is my reason for +naming Monday. She’ll speak to you about it herself, and now she’ll find +you prepared, Affery.” That same day she spoke to me, and she said, “So, +Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I +am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for +you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible +man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man.” + What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been--a +smothering instead of a wedding,’ Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind +with great pains for this form of expression, ‘I couldn’t have said a +word upon it, against them two clever ones.’ + +‘In good faith, I believe so.’ + +‘And so you may, Arthur.’ + +‘Affery, what girl was that in my mother’s room just now?’ + +‘Girl?’ said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key. + +‘It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you--almost hidden in the dark +corner?’ + +‘Oh! She? Little Dorrit? _She_‘s nothing; she’s a whim of--hers.’ It was +a peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam +by name. ‘But there’s another sort of girls than that about. Have you +forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I’ll be bound.’ + +‘I suffered enough from my mother’s separating us, to remember her. I +recollect her very well.’ + +‘Have you got another?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Here’s news for you, then. She’s well to do now, and a widow. And if +you like to have her, why you can.’ + +‘And how do you know that, Affery?’ + +‘Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.--There’s Jeremiah on +the stairs!’ She was gone in a moment. + +Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily +weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the +last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy’s love had +found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under +its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little +more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from +whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and +a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined, +to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the +bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window, +and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to +dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man’s life--so much +was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better +directed and happier to speculate upon--to make him a dreamer, after +all. + + + + +CHAPTER 4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream + + +When Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, she usually dreamed, unlike the son of her +old mistress, with her eyes shut. She had a curiously vivid dream that +night, and before she had left the son of her old mistress many hours. +In fact it was not at all like a dream; it was so very real in every +respect. It happened in this wise. + +The bed-chamber occupied by Mr and Mrs Flintwinch was within a few paces +of that to which Mrs Clennam had been so long confined. It was not on +the same floor, for it was a room at the side of the house, which was +approached by a steep descent of a few odd steps, diverging from the +main staircase nearly opposite to Mrs Clennam’s door. It could scarcely +be said to be within call, the walls, doors, and panelling of the old +place were so cumbrous; but it was within easy reach, in any undress, +at any hour of the night, in any temperature. At the head of the bed +and within a foot of Mrs Flintwinch’s ear, was a bell, the line of which +hung ready to Mrs Clennam’s hand. Whenever this bell rang, up started +Affery, and was in the sick room before she was awake. + +Having got her mistress into bed, lighted her lamp, and given her good +night, Mrs Flintwinch went to roost as usual, saving that her lord had +not yet appeared. It was her lord himself who became--unlike the +last theme in the mind, according to the observation of most +philosophers--the subject of Mrs Flintwinch’s dream. + +It seemed to her that she awoke after sleeping some hours, and found +Jeremiah not yet abed. That she looked at the candle she had left +burning, and, measuring the time like King Alfred the Great, was +confirmed by its wasted state in her belief that she had been asleep for +some considerable period. That she arose thereupon, muffled herself up +in a wrapper, put on her shoes, and went out on the staircase, much +surprised, to look for Jeremiah. + +The staircase was as wooden and solid as need be, and Affery went +straight down it without any of those deviations peculiar to dreams. +She did not skim over it, but walked down it, and guided herself by the +banisters on account of her candle having died out. In one corner of +the hall, behind the house-door, there was a little waiting-room, like a +well-shaft, with a long narrow window in it as if it had been ripped up. +In this room, which was never used, a light was burning. + +Mrs Flintwinch crossed the hall, feeling its pavement cold to her +stockingless feet, and peeped in between the rusty hinges on the door, +which stood a little open. She expected to see Jeremiah fast asleep or +in a fit, but he was calmly seated in a chair, awake, and in his usual +health. But what--hey?--Lord forgive us!--Mrs Flintwinch muttered some +ejaculation to this effect, and turned giddy. + +For, Mr Flintwinch awake, was watching Mr Flintwinch asleep. He sat on +one side of the small table, looking keenly at himself on the other side +with his chin sunk on his breast, snoring. The waking Flintwinch had his +full front face presented to his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was +in profile. The waking Flintwinch was the old original; the sleeping +Flintwinch was the double, just as she might have distinguished between +a tangible object and its reflection in a glass, Affery made out this +difference with her head going round and round. + +If she had had any doubt which was her own Jeremiah, it would have been +resolved by his impatience. He looked about him for an offensive weapon, +caught up the snuffers, and, before applying them to the cabbage-headed +candle, lunged at the sleeper as though he would have run him through +the body. + +‘Who’s that? What’s the matter?’ cried the sleeper, starting. + +Mr Flintwinch made a movement with the snuffers, as if he would have +enforced silence on his companion by putting them down his throat; the +companion, coming to himself, said, rubbing his eyes, ‘I forgot where I +was.’ + +‘You have been asleep,’ snarled Jeremiah, referring to his watch, ‘two +hours. You said you would be rested enough if you had a short nap.’ + +‘I have had a short nap,’ said Double. + +‘Half-past two o’clock in the morning,’ muttered Jeremiah. ‘Where’s your +hat? Where’s your coat? Where’s the box?’ + +‘All here,’ said Double, tying up his throat with sleepy carefulness in +a shawl. ‘Stop a minute. Now give me the sleeve--not that sleeve, the +other one. Ha! I’m not as young as I was.’ Mr Flintwinch had pulled +him into his coat with vehement energy. ‘You promised me a second glass +after I was rested.’ + +‘Drink it!’ returned Jeremiah, ‘and--choke yourself, I was going +to say--but go, I mean.’ At the same time he produced the identical +port-wine bottle, and filled a wine-glass. + +‘Her port-wine, I believe?’ said Double, tasting it as if he were in the +Docks, with hours to spare. ‘Her health.’ + +He took a sip. + +‘Your health!’ + +He took another sip. + +‘His health!’ + +He took another sip. + +‘And all friends round St Paul’s.’ He emptied and put down the +wine-glass half-way through this ancient civic toast, and took up the +box. It was an iron box some two feet square, which he carried under his +arms pretty easily. Jeremiah watched his manner of adjusting it, with +jealous eyes; tried it with his hands, to be sure that he had a firm +hold of it; bade him for his life be careful what he was about; and then +stole out on tiptoe to open the door for him. Affery, anticipating +the last movement, was on the staircase. The sequence of things was +so ordinary and natural, that, standing there, she could hear the door +open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside. + +But now came the most remarkable part of the dream. She felt so afraid +of her husband, that being on the staircase, she had not the power to +retreat to her room (which she might easily have done before he had +fastened the door), but stood there staring. Consequently when he came +up the staircase to bed, candle in hand, he came full upon her. He +looked astonished, but said not a word. He kept his eyes upon her, and +kept advancing; and she, completely under his influence, kept retiring +before him. Thus, she walking backward and he walking forward, they +came into their own room. They were no sooner shut in there, than Mr +Flintwinch took her by the throat, and shook her until she was black in +the face. + +‘Why, Affery, woman--Affery!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘What have you been +dreaming of? Wake up, wake up! What’s the matter?’ + +‘The--the matter, Jeremiah?’ gasped Mrs Flintwinch, rolling her eyes. + +‘Why, Affery, woman--Affery! You have been getting out of bed in your +sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself, below, and +find you in your wrapper here, with the nightmare. Affery, woman,’ said +Mr Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive countenance, ‘if +you ever have a dream of this sort again, it’ll be a sign of your being +in want of physic. And I’ll give you such a dose, old woman--such a +dose!’ + +Mrs Flintwinch thanked him and crept into bed. + + + + +CHAPTER 5. Family Affairs + + +As the city clocks struck nine on Monday morning, Mrs Clennam was +wheeled by Jeremiah Flintwinch of the cut-down aspect to her tall +cabinet. When she had unlocked and opened it, and had settled herself +at its desk, Jeremiah withdrew--as it might be, to hang himself more +effectually--and her son appeared. + +‘Are you any better this morning, mother?’ + +She shook her head, with the same austere air of luxuriousness that she +had shown over-night when speaking of the weather. ‘I shall never be +better any more. It is well for me, Arthur, that I know it and can bear +it.’ + +Sitting with her hands laid separately upon the desk, and the tall +cabinet towering before her, she looked as if she were performing on a +dumb church organ. Her son thought so (it was an old thought with him), +while he took his seat beside it. + +She opened a drawer or two, looked over some business papers, and put +them back again. Her severe face had no thread of relaxation in it, by +which any explorer could have been guided to the gloomy labyrinth of her +thoughts. + +‘Shall I speak of our affairs, mother? Are you inclined to enter upon +business?’ + +‘Am I inclined, Arthur? Rather, are you? Your father has been dead a +year and more. I have been at your disposal, and waiting your pleasure, +ever since.’ + +‘There was much to arrange before I could leave; and when I did leave, I +travelled a little for rest and relief.’ + +She turned her face towards him, as not having heard or understood his +last words. + +‘For rest and relief.’ + +She glanced round the sombre room, and appeared from the motion of her +lips to repeat the words to herself, as calling it to witness how little +of either it afforded her. + +‘Besides, mother, you being sole executrix, and having the direction and +management of the estate, there remained little business, or I might say +none, that I could transact, until you had had time to arrange matters +to your satisfaction.’ + +‘The accounts are made out,’ she returned. ‘I have them here. The +vouchers have all been examined and passed. You can inspect them when +you like, Arthur; now, if you please.’ + +‘It is quite enough, mother, to know that the business is completed. +Shall I proceed then?’ + +‘Why not?’ she said, in her frozen way. + +‘Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our +dealings have been progressively on the decline. We have never shown +much confidence, or invited much; we have attached no people to us; the +track we have kept is not the track of the time; and we have been +left far behind. I need not dwell on this to you, mother. You know it +necessarily.’ + +‘I know what you mean,’ she answered, in a qualified tone. + +‘Even this old house in which we speak,’ pursued her son, ‘is an +instance of what I say. In my father’s earlier time, and in his uncle’s +time before him, it was a place of business--really a place of business, +and business resort. Now, it is a mere anomaly and incongruity here, out +of date and out of purpose. All our consignments have long been made to +Rovinghams’ the commission-merchants; and although, as a check upon +them, and in the stewardship of my father’s resources, your judgment and +watchfulness have been actively exerted, still those qualities would +have influenced my father’s fortunes equally, if you had lived in any +private dwelling: would they not?’ + +‘Do you consider,’ she returned, without answering his question, ‘that +a house serves no purpose, Arthur, in sheltering your infirm and +afflicted--justly infirm and righteously afflicted--mother?’ + +‘I was speaking only of business purposes.’ + +‘With what object?’ + +‘I am coming to it.’ + +‘I foresee,’ she returned, fixing her eyes upon him, ‘what it is. +But the Lord forbid that I should repine under any visitation. In my +sinfulness I merit bitter disappointment, and I accept it.’ + +‘Mother, I grieve to hear you speak like this, though I have had my +apprehensions that you would--’ + +‘You knew I would. You knew _me_,’ she interrupted. + +Her son paused for a moment. He had struck fire out of her, and was +surprised. ‘Well!’ she said, relapsing into stone. ‘Go on. Let me hear.’ + +‘You have anticipated, mother, that I decide for my part, to abandon +the business. I have done with it. I will not take upon myself to advise +you; you will continue it, I see. If I had any influence with you, I +would simply use it to soften your judgment of me in causing you this +disappointment: to represent to you that I have lived the half of a long +term of life, and have never before set my own will against yours. I +cannot say that I have been able to conform myself, in heart and spirit, +to your rules; I cannot say that I believe my forty years have been +profitable or pleasant to myself, or any one; but I have habitually +submitted, and I only ask you to remember it.’ + +Woe to the suppliant, if such a one there were or ever had been, who had +any concession to look for in the inexorable face at the cabinet. Woe to +the defaulter whose appeal lay to the tribunal where those severe eyes +presided. Great need had the rigid woman of her mystical religion, +veiled in gloom and darkness, with lightnings of cursing, vengeance, and +destruction, flashing through the sable clouds. Forgive us our debts as +we forgive our debtors, was a prayer too poor in spirit for her. Smite +Thou my debtors, Lord, wither them, crush them; do Thou as I would do, +and Thou shalt have my worship: this was the impious tower of stone she +built up to scale Heaven. + +‘Have you finished, Arthur, or have you anything more to say to me? I +think there can be nothing else. You have been short, but full of +matter!’ + +‘Mother, I have yet something more to say. It has been upon my mind, +night and day, this long time. It is far more difficult to say than what +I have said. That concerned myself; this concerns us all.’ + +‘Us all! Who are us all?’ + +‘Yourself, myself, my dead father.’ + +She took her hands from the desk; folded them in her lap; and sat +looking towards the fire, with the impenetrability of an old Egyptian +sculpture. + +‘You knew my father infinitely better than I ever knew him; and his +reserve with me yielded to you. You were much the stronger, mother, and +directed him. As a child, I knew it as well as I know it now. I knew +that your ascendancy over him was the cause of his going to China to +take care of the business there, while you took care of it here (though +I do not even now know whether these were really terms of separation +that you agreed upon); and that it was your will that I should remain +with you until I was twenty, and then go to him as I did. You will not +be offended by my recalling this, after twenty years?’ + +‘I am waiting to hear why you recall it.’ + +He lowered his voice, and said, with manifest reluctance, and against +his will: + +‘I want to ask you, mother, whether it ever occurred to you to +suspect--’ + +At the word Suspect, she turned her eyes momentarily upon her son, with +a dark frown. She then suffered them to seek the fire, as before; but +with the frown fixed above them, as if the sculptor of old Egypt had +indented it in the hard granite face, to frown for ages. + +‘--that he had any secret remembrance which caused him trouble of +mind--remorse? Whether you ever observed anything in his conduct +suggesting that; or ever spoke to him upon it, or ever heard him hint at +such a thing?’ + +‘I do not understand what kind of secret remembrance you mean to infer +that your father was a prey to,’ she returned, after a silence. ‘You +speak so mysteriously.’ + +‘Is it possible, mother,’ her son leaned forward to be the nearer to her +while he whispered it, and laid his hand nervously upon her desk, ‘is +it possible, mother, that he had unhappily wronged any one, and made no +reparation?’ + +Looking at him wrathfully, she bent herself back in her chair to keep +him further off, but gave him no reply. + +‘I am deeply sensible, mother, that if this thought has never at any +time flashed upon you, it must seem cruel and unnatural in me, even in +this confidence, to breathe it. But I cannot shake it off. Time and +change (I have tried both before breaking silence) do nothing to wear it +out. Remember, I was with my father. Remember, I saw his face when he +gave the watch into my keeping, and struggled to express that he sent it +as a token you would understand, to you. Remember, I saw him at the last +with the pencil in his failing hand, trying to write some word for you +to read, but to which he could give no shape. The more remote and cruel +this vague suspicion that I have, the stronger the circumstances that +could give it any semblance of probability to me. For Heaven’s sake, let +us examine sacredly whether there is any wrong entrusted to us to set +right. No one can help towards it, mother, but you.’ + +Still so recoiling in her chair that her overpoised weight moved it, +from time to time, a little on its wheels, and gave her the appearance +of a phantom of fierce aspect gliding away from him, she interposed her +left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand towards her face, +between herself and him, and looked at him in a fixed silence. + +‘In grasping at money and in driving hard bargains--I have begun, and I +must speak of such things now, mother--some one may have been grievously +deceived, injured, ruined. You were the moving power of all this +machinery before my birth; your stronger spirit has been infused into +all my father’s dealings for more than two score years. You can set +these doubts at rest, I think, if you will really help me to discover +the truth. Will you, mother?’ + +He stopped in the hope that she would speak. But her grey hair was not +more immovable in its two folds, than were her firm lips. + +‘If reparation can be made to any one, if restitution can be made to any +one, let us know it and make it. Nay, mother, if within my means, let +_me_ make it. I have seen so little happiness come of money; it has +brought within my knowledge so little peace to this house, or to any one +belonging to it, that it is worth less to me than to another. It can buy +me nothing that will not be a reproach and misery to me, if I am haunted +by a suspicion that it darkened my father’s last hours with remorse, and +that it is not honestly and justly mine.’ + +There was a bell-rope hanging on the panelled wall, some two or three +yards from the cabinet. By a swift and sudden action of her foot, she +drove her wheeled chair rapidly back to it and pulled it +violently--still holding her arm up in its shield-like posture, as if he +were striking at her, and she warding off the blow. + +A girl came hurrying in, frightened. + +‘Send Flintwinch here!’ + +In a moment the girl had withdrawn, and the old man stood within the +door. ‘What! You’re hammer and tongs, already, you two?’ he said, coolly +stroking his face. ‘I thought you would be. I was pretty sure of it.’ + +‘Flintwinch!’ said the mother, ‘look at my son. Look at him!’ + +‘Well, I _am_ looking at him,’ said Flintwinch. + +She stretched out the arm with which she had shielded herself, and as +she went on, pointed at the object of her anger. + +‘In the very hour of his return almost--before the shoe upon his foot is +dry--he asperses his father’s memory to his mother! Asks his mother +to become, with him, a spy upon his father’s transactions through a +lifetime! Has misgivings that the goods of this world which we have +painfully got together early and late, with wear and tear and toil and +self-denial, are so much plunder; and asks to whom they shall be given +up, as reparation and restitution!’ + +Although she said this raging, she said it in a voice so far from being +beyond her control that it was even lower than her usual tone. She also +spoke with great distinctness. + +‘Reparation!’ said she. ‘Yes, truly! It is easy for him to talk of +reparation, fresh from journeying and junketing in foreign lands, and +living a life of vanity and pleasure. But let him look at me, in prison, +and in bonds here. I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed +that I shall so make reparation for my sins. Reparation! Is there none +in this room? Has there been none here this fifteen years?’ + +Thus was she always balancing her bargains with the Majesty of heaven, +posting up the entries to her credit, strictly keeping her set-off, and +claiming her due. She was only remarkable in this, for the force +and emphasis with which she did it. Thousands upon thousands do it, +according to their varying manner, every day. + +‘Flintwinch, give me that book!’ + +The old man handed it to her from the table. She put two fingers between +the leaves, closed the book upon them, and held it up to her son in +a threatening way. + +‘In the days of old, Arthur, treated of in this commentary, there were +pious men, beloved of the Lord, who would have cursed their sons for +less than this: who would have sent them forth, and sent whole nations +forth, if such had supported them, to be avoided of God and man, and +perish, down to the baby at the breast. But I only tell you that if you +ever renew that theme with me, I will renounce you; I will so dismiss +you through that doorway, that you had better have been motherless from +your cradle. I will never see or know you more. And if, after all, you +were to come into this darkened room to look upon me lying dead, my body +should bleed, if I could make it, when you came near me.’ + +In part relieved by the intensity of this threat, and in part (monstrous +as the fact is) by a general impression that it was in some sort a +religious proceeding, she handed back the book to the old man, and was +silent. + +‘Now,’ said Jeremiah; ‘premising that I’m not going to stand between you +two, will you let me ask (as I _have_ been called in, and made a third) +what is all this about?’ + +‘Take your version of it,’ returned Arthur, finding it left to him to +speak, ‘from my mother. Let it rest there. What I have said, was said to +my mother only.’ + +‘Oh!’ returned the old man. ‘From your mother? Take it from your mother? +Well! But your mother mentioned that you had been suspecting your father. +That’s not dutiful, Mr Arthur. Who will you be suspecting next?’ + +‘Enough,’ said Mrs Clennam, turning her face so that it was addressed +for the moment to the old man only. ‘Let no more be said about this.’ + +‘Yes, but stop a bit, stop a bit,’ the old man persisted. ‘Let us see +how we stand. Have you told Mr Arthur that he mustn’t lay offences at +his father’s door? That he has no right to do it? That he has no ground +to go upon?’ + +‘I tell him so now.’ + +‘Ah! Exactly,’ said the old man. ‘You tell him so now. You hadn’t told +him so before, and you tell him so now. Ay, ay! That’s right! You know I +stood between you and his father so long, that it seems as if death had +made no difference, and I was still standing between you. So I will, and +so in fairness I require to have that plainly put forward. Arthur, you +please to hear that you have no right to mistrust your father, and have +no ground to go upon.’ + +He put his hands to the back of the wheeled chair, and muttering to +himself, slowly wheeled his mistress back to her cabinet. ‘Now,’ he +resumed, standing behind her: ‘in case I should go away leaving things +half done, and so should be wanted again when you come to the other half +and get into one of your flights, has Arthur told you what he means to +do about the business?’ + +‘He has relinquished it.’ + +‘In favour of nobody, I suppose?’ + +Mrs Clennam glanced at her son, leaning against one of the windows. He +observed the look and said, ‘To my mother, of course. She does what she +pleases.’ + +‘And if any pleasure,’ she said after a short pause, ‘could arise for me +out of the disappointment of my expectations that my son, in the prime +of his life, would infuse new youth and strength into it, and make it +of great profit and power, it would be in advancing an old and faithful +servant. Jeremiah, the captain deserts the ship, but you and I will sink +or float with it.’ + +Jeremiah, whose eyes glistened as if they saw money, darted a sudden +look at the son, which seemed to say, ‘I owe _you_ no thanks for this; +_you_ have done nothing towards it!’ and then told the mother that he +thanked her, and that Affery thanked her, and that he would never desert +her, and that Affery would never desert her. Finally, he hauled up his +watch from its depths, and said, ‘Eleven. Time for your oysters!’ and with +that change of subject, which involved no change of expression or manner, +rang the bell. + +But Mrs Clennam, resolved to treat herself with the greater rigour for +having been supposed to be unacquainted with reparation, refused to +eat her oysters when they were brought. They looked tempting; eight in +number, circularly set out on a white plate on a tray covered with a +white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered French roll, and a little +compact glass of cool wine and water; but she resisted all persuasions, +and sent them down again--placing the act to her credit, no doubt, in +her Eternal Day-Book. + +This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the +girl who had appeared when the bell was rung; the same who had been in +the dimly-lighted room last night. Now that he had an opportunity of +observing her, Arthur found that her diminutive figure, small features, +and slight spare dress, gave her the appearance of being much younger +than she was. A woman, probably of not less than two-and-twenty, she +might have been passed in the street for little more than half that +age. Not that her face was very youthful, for in truth there was more +consideration and care in it than naturally belonged to her utmost +years; but she was so little and light, so noiseless and shy, and +appeared so conscious of being out of place among the three hard elders, +that she had all the manner and much of the appearance of a subdued +child. + +In a hard way, and in an uncertain way that fluctuated between patronage +and putting down, the sprinkling from a watering-pot and hydraulic +pressure, Mrs Clennam showed an interest in this dependent. Even in the +moment of her entrance, upon the violent ringing of the bell, when the +mother shielded herself with that singular action from the son, Mrs +Clennam’s eyes had had some individual recognition in them, which seemed +reserved for her. As there are degrees of hardness in the hardest metal, +and shades of colour in black itself, so, even in the asperity of Mrs +Clennam’s demeanour towards all the rest of humanity and towards Little +Dorrit, there was a fine gradation. + +Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day--or at +so little--from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual +to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little +Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was +a mystery. + +Another of the moral phenomena of Little Dorrit. Besides her +consideration money, her daily contract included meals. She had an +extraordinary repugnance to dining in company; would never do so, if +it were possible to escape. Would always plead that she had this bit of +work to begin first, or that bit of work to finish first; and would, of +a certainty, scheme and plan--not very cunningly, it would seem, for she +deceived no one--to dine alone. Successful in this, happy in carrying +off her plate anywhere, to make a table of her lap, or a box, or the +ground, or even as was supposed, to stand on tip-toe, dining moderately +at a mantel-shelf; the great anxiety of Little Dorrit’s day was set at +rest. + +It was not easy to make out Little Dorrit’s face; she was so retiring, +plied her needle in such removed corners, and started away so scared if +encountered on the stairs. But it seemed to be a pale transparent face, +quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature, its soft hazel +eyes excepted. A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair +of busy hands, and a shabby dress--it must needs have been very shabby +to look at all so, being so neat--were Little Dorrit as she sat at work. + +For these particulars or generalities concerning Little Dorrit, Mr +Arthur was indebted in the course of the day to his own eyes and to Mrs +Affery’s tongue. If Mrs Affery had had any will or way of her own, it +would probably have been unfavourable to Little Dorrit. But as ‘them two +clever ones’--Mrs Affery’s perpetual reference, in whom her personality +was swallowed up--were agreed to accept Little Dorrit as a matter of +course, she had nothing for it but to follow suit. Similarly, if the +two clever ones had agreed to murder Little Dorrit by candlelight, Mrs +Affery, being required to hold the candle, would no doubt have done it. + +In the intervals of roasting the partridge for the invalid chamber, and +preparing a baking-dish of beef and pudding for the dining-room, Mrs +Affery made the communications above set forth; invariably putting +her head in at the door again after she had taken it out, to enforce +resistance to the two clever ones. It appeared to have become a perfect +passion with Mrs Flintwinch, that the only son should be pitted against +them. + +In the course of the day, too, Arthur looked through the whole house. +Dull and dark he found it. The gaunt rooms, deserted for years upon +years, seemed to have settled down into a gloomy lethargy from which +nothing could rouse them again. The furniture, at once spare and +lumbering, hid in the rooms rather than furnished them, and there was +no colour in all the house; such colour as had ever been there, had long +ago started away on lost sunbeams--got itself absorbed, perhaps, into +flowers, butterflies, plumage of birds, precious stones, what not. There +was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings +were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old women might +have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea; the dead-cold +hearths showed no traces of having ever been warmed but in heaps of soot +that had tumbled down the chimneys, and eddied about in little +dusky whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what had once been +a drawing-room, there were a pair of meagre mirrors, with dismal +processions of black figures carrying black garlands, walking round +the frames; but even these were short of heads and legs, and one +undertaker-like Cupid had swung round on its own axis and got upside +down, and another had fallen off altogether. The room Arthur Clennam’s +deceased father had occupied for business purposes, when he first +remembered him, was so unaltered that he might have been imagined still +to keep it invisibly, as his visible relict kept her room up-stairs; +Jeremiah Flintwinch still going between them negotiating. His picture, +dark and gloomy, earnestly speechless on the wall, with the eyes +intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from +them, seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted; but as +to any yielding on the part of his mother, he had now no hope, and as to +any other means of setting his distrust at rest, he had abandoned hope a +long time. Down in the cellars, as up in the bed-chambers, old objects +that he well remembered were changed by age and decay, but were still in +their old places; even to empty beer-casks hoary with cobwebs, and empty +wine-bottles with fur and fungus choking up their throats. There, too, +among unusual bottle-racks and pale slants of light from the yard above, +was the strong room stored with old ledgers, which had as musty and +corrupt a smell as if they were regularly balanced, in the dead small +hours, by a nightly resurrection of old book-keepers. + +The baking-dish was served up in a penitential manner on a shrunken +cloth at an end of the dining-table, at two o’clock, when he dined with +Mr Flintwinch, the new partner. Mr Flintwinch informed him that his +mother had recovered her equanimity now, and that he need not fear her +again alluding to what had passed in the morning. ‘And don’t you lay +offences at your father’s door, Mr Arthur,’ added Jeremiah, ‘once for +all, don’t do it! Now, we have done with the subject.’ + +Mr Flintwinch had been already rearranging and dusting his own +particular little office, as if to do honour to his accession to new +dignity. He resumed this occupation when he was replete with beef, had +sucked up all the gravy in the baking-dish with the flat of his knife, +and had drawn liberally on a barrel of small beer in the scullery. Thus +refreshed, he tucked up his shirt-sleeves and went to work again; and Mr +Arthur, watching him as he set about it, plainly saw that his father’s +picture, or his father’s grave, would be as communicative with him as +this old man. + +‘Now, Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, as she crossed the hall. ‘You +hadn’t made Mr Arthur’s bed when I was up there last. Stir yourself. +Bustle.’ + +But Mr Arthur found the house so blank and dreary, and was so unwilling +to assist at another implacable consignment of his mother’s enemies +(perhaps himself among them) to mortal disfigurement and immortal ruin, +that he announced his intention of lodging at the coffee-house where he +had left his luggage. Mr Flintwinch taking kindly to the idea of getting +rid of him, and his mother being indifferent, beyond considerations of +saving, to most domestic arrangements that were not bounded by the walls +of her own chamber, he easily carried this point without new offence. +Daily business hours were agreed upon, which his mother, Mr Flintwinch, +and he, were to devote together to a necessary checking of books and +papers; and he left the home he had so lately found, with depressed +heart. + +But Little Dorrit? + +The business hours, allowing for intervals of invalid regimen of oysters +and partridges, during which Clennam refreshed himself with a walk, +were from ten to six for about a fortnight. Sometimes Little Dorrit was +employed at her needle, sometimes not, sometimes appeared as a humble +visitor: which must have been her character on the occasion of his +arrival. His original curiosity augmented every day, as he watched for +her, saw or did not see her, and speculated about her. Influenced by his +predominant idea, he even fell into a habit of discussing with himself +the possibility of her being in some way associated with it. At last he +resolved to watch Little Dorrit and know more of her story. + + + + +CHAPTER 6. The Father of the Marshalsea + + +Thirty years ago there stood, a few doors short of the church of Saint +George, in the borough of Southwark, on the left-hand side of the way +going southward, the Marshalsea Prison. It had stood there many years +before, and it remained there some years afterwards; but it is gone now, +and the world is none the worse without it. + +It was an oblong pile of barrack building, partitioned into squalid +houses standing back to back, so that there were no back rooms; +environed by a narrow paved yard, hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at +top. Itself a close and confined prison for debtors, it contained within +it a much closer and more confined jail for smugglers. Offenders against +the revenue laws, and defaulters to excise or customs who had incurred +fines which they were unable to pay, were supposed to be incarcerated +behind an iron-plated door closing up a second prison, consisting of a +strong cell or two, and a blind alley some yard and a half wide, which +formed the mysterious termination of the very limited skittle-ground in +which the Marshalsea debtors bowled down their troubles. + +Supposed to be incarcerated there, because the time had rather outgrown +the strong cells and the blind alley. In practice they had come to be +considered a little too bad, though in theory they were quite as good as +ever; which may be observed to be the case at the present day with other +cells that are not at all strong, and with other blind alleys that are +stone-blind. Hence the smugglers habitually consorted with the debtors +(who received them with open arms), except at certain constitutional +moments when somebody came from some Office, to go through some form of +overlooking something which neither he nor anybody else knew anything +about. On these truly British occasions, the smugglers, if any, made a +feint of walking into the strong cells and the blind alley, while this +somebody pretended to do his something: and made a reality of walking +out again as soon as he hadn’t done it--neatly epitomising the +administration of most of the public affairs in our right little, tight +little, island. + +There had been taken to the Marshalsea Prison, long before the day when +the sun shone on Marseilles and on the opening of this narrative, a +debtor with whom this narrative has some concern. + +He was, at that time, a very amiable and very helpless middle-aged +gentleman, who was going out again directly. Necessarily, he was going +out again directly, because the Marshalsea lock never turned upon a +debtor who was not. He brought in a portmanteau with him, which he +doubted its being worth while to unpack; he was so perfectly clear--like +all the rest of them, the turnkey on the lock said--that he was going +out again directly. + +He was a shy, retiring man; well-looking, though in an effeminate style; +with a mild voice, curling hair, and irresolute hands--rings upon the +fingers in those days--which nervously wandered to his trembling lip a +hundred times in the first half-hour of his acquaintance with the jail. +His principal anxiety was about his wife. + +‘Do you think, sir,’ he asked the turnkey, ‘that she will be very much +shocked, if she should come to the gate to-morrow morning?’ + +The turnkey gave it as the result of his experience that some of ‘em was +and some of ‘em wasn’t. In general, more no than yes. ‘What like is she, +you see?’ he philosophically asked: ‘that’s what it hinges on.’ + +‘She is very delicate and inexperienced indeed.’ + +‘That,’ said the turnkey, ‘is agen her.’ + +‘She is so little used to go out alone,’ said the debtor, ‘that I am at +a loss to think how she will ever make her way here, if she walks.’ + +‘P’raps,’ quoth the turnkey, ‘she’ll take a ackney coach.’ + +‘Perhaps.’ The irresolute fingers went to the trembling lip. ‘I hope she +will. She may not think of it.’ + +‘Or p’raps,’ said the turnkey, offering his suggestions from the the top +of his well-worn wooden stool, as he might have offered them to a child +for whose weakness he felt a compassion, ‘p’raps she’ll get her brother, +or her sister, to come along with her.’ + +‘She has no brother or sister.’ + +‘Niece, nevy, cousin, serwant, young ‘ooman, greengrocer.--Dash it! One +or another on ‘em,’ said the turnkey, repudiating beforehand the refusal +of all his suggestions. + +‘I fear--I hope it is not against the rules--that she will bring the +children.’ + +‘The children?’ said the turnkey. ‘And the rules? Why, lord set you +up like a corner pin, we’ve a reg’lar playground o’ children here. +Children! Why we swarm with ‘em. How many a you got?’ + +‘Two,’ said the debtor, lifting his irresolute hand to his lip again, +and turning into the prison. + +The turnkey followed him with his eyes. ‘And you another,’ he observed +to himself, ‘which makes three on you. And your wife another, I’ll lay +a crown. Which makes four on you. And another coming, I’ll lay +half-a-crown. Which’ll make five on you. And I’ll go another seven and +sixpence to name which is the helplessest, the unborn baby or you!’ + +He was right in all his particulars. She came next day with a little +boy of three years old, and a little girl of two, and he stood entirely +corroborated. + +‘Got a room now; haven’t you?’ the turnkey asked the debtor after a week +or two. + +‘Yes, I have got a very good room.’ + +‘Any little sticks a coming to furnish it?’ said the turnkey. + +‘I expect a few necessary articles of furniture to be delivered by the +carrier, this afternoon.’ + +‘Missis and little ‘uns a coming to keep you company?’ asked the +turnkey. + +‘Why, yes, we think it better that we should not be scattered, even for +a few weeks.’ + +‘Even for a few weeks, _of_ course,’ replied the turnkey. And he followed +him again with his eyes, and nodded his head seven times when he was +gone. + +The affairs of this debtor were perplexed by a partnership, of which he +knew no more than that he had invested money in it; by legal matters +of assignment and settlement, conveyance here and conveyance there, +suspicion of unlawful preference of creditors in this direction, and of +mysterious spiriting away of property in that; and as nobody on the face +of the earth could be more incapable of explaining any single item in +the heap of confusion than the debtor himself, nothing comprehensible +could be made of his case. To question him in detail, and endeavour +to reconcile his answers; to closet him with accountants and sharp +practitioners, learned in the wiles of insolvency and bankruptcy; was +only to put the case out at compound interest and incomprehensibility. +The irresolute fingers fluttered more and more ineffectually about the +trembling lip on every such occasion, and the sharpest practitioners +gave him up as a hopeless job. + +‘Out?’ said the turnkey, ‘_he_‘ll never get out, unless his creditors take +him by the shoulders and shove him out.’ + +He had been there five or six months, when he came running to this +turnkey one forenoon to tell him, breathless and pale, that his wife was +ill. + +‘As anybody might a known she would be,’ said the turnkey. + +‘We intended,’ he returned, ‘that she should go to a country lodging +only to-morrow. What am I to do! Oh, good heaven, what am I to do!’ + +‘Don’t waste your time in clasping your hands and biting your fingers,’ +responded the practical turnkey, taking him by the elbow, ‘but come +along with me.’ + +The turnkey conducted him--trembling from head to foot, and constantly +crying under his breath, What was he to do! while his irresolute fingers +bedabbled the tears upon his face--up one of the common staircases in +the prison to a door on the garret story. Upon which door the turnkey +knocked with the handle of his key. + +‘Come in!’ cried a voice inside. + +The turnkey, opening the door, disclosed in a wretched, ill-smelling +little room, two hoarse, puffy, red-faced personages seated at a +rickety table, playing at all-fours, smoking pipes, and drinking brandy. + +‘Doctor,’ said the turnkey, ‘here’s a gentleman’s wife in want of you +without a minute’s loss of time!’ + +The doctor’s friend was in the positive degree of hoarseness, puffiness, +red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy; the doctor in +the comparative--hoarser, puffier, more red-faced, more all-fourey, +tobaccoer, dirtier, and brandier. The doctor was amazingly shabby, in +a torn and darned rough-weather sea-jacket, out at elbows and eminently +short of buttons (he had been in his time the experienced surgeon +carried by a passenger ship), the dirtiest white trousers conceivable by +mortal man, carpet slippers, and no visible linen. ‘Childbed?’ said +the doctor. ‘I’m the boy!’ With that the doctor took a comb from the +chimney-piece and stuck his hair upright--which appeared to be his +way of washing himself--produced a professional chest or case, of most +abject appearance, from the cupboard where his cup and saucer and coals +were, settled his chin in the frowsy wrapper round his neck, and became +a ghastly medical scarecrow. + +The doctor and the debtor ran down-stairs, leaving the turnkey to return +to the lock, and made for the debtor’s room. All the ladies in the +prison had got hold of the news, and were in the yard. Some of them +had already taken possession of the two children, and were hospitably +carrying them off; others were offering loans of little comforts from +their own scanty store; others were sympathising with the greatest +volubility. The gentlemen prisoners, feeling themselves at a +disadvantage, had for the most part retired, not to say sneaked, +to their rooms; from the open windows of which some of them now +complimented the doctor with whistles as he passed below, while others, +with several stories between them, interchanged sarcastic references to +the prevalent excitement. + +It was a hot summer day, and the prison rooms were baking between the +high walls. In the debtor’s confined chamber, Mrs Bangham, charwoman and +messenger, who was not a prisoner (though she had been once), but +was the popular medium of communication with the outer world, had +volunteered her services as fly-catcher and general attendant. The walls +and ceiling were blackened with flies. Mrs Bangham, expert in sudden +device, with one hand fanned the patient with a cabbage leaf, and with +the other set traps of vinegar and sugar in gallipots; at the same time +enunciating sentiments of an encouraging and congratulatory nature, +adapted to the occasion. + +‘The flies trouble you, don’t they, my dear?’ said Mrs Bangham. ‘But +p’raps they’ll take your mind off of it, and do you good. What between +the buryin ground, the grocer’s, the waggon-stables, and the paunch +trade, the Marshalsea flies gets very large. P’raps they’re sent as a +consolation, if we only know’d it. How are you now, my dear? No better? +No, my dear, it ain’t to be expected; you’ll be worse before you’re +better, and you know it, don’t you? Yes. That’s right! And to think of +a sweet little cherub being born inside the lock! Now ain’t it pretty, +ain’t _that_ something to carry you through it pleasant? Why, we ain’t +had such a thing happen here, my dear, not for I couldn’t name the time +when. And you a crying too?’ said Mrs Bangham, to rally the patient more +and more. ‘You! Making yourself so famous! With the flies a falling into +the gallipots by fifties! And everything a going on so well! And here if +there ain’t,’ said Mrs Bangham as the door opened, ‘if there ain’t your +dear gentleman along with Dr Haggage! And now indeed we _are_ complete, I +_think_!’ + +The doctor was scarcely the kind of apparition to inspire a patient +with a sense of absolute completeness, but as he presently delivered the +opinion, ‘We are as right as we can be, Mrs Bangham, and we shall +come out of this like a house afire;’ and as he and Mrs Bangham took +possession of the poor helpless pair, as everybody else and anybody else +had always done, the means at hand were as good on the whole as better +would have been. The special feature in Dr Haggage’s treatment of the +case, was his determination to keep Mrs Bangham up to the mark. As thus: + +‘Mrs Bangham,’ said the doctor, before he had been there twenty minutes, +‘go outside and fetch a little brandy, or we shall have you giving in.’ + +‘Thank you, sir. But none on my accounts,’ said Mrs Bangham. + +‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am in professional attendance +on this lady, and don’t choose to allow any discussion on your part. Go +outside and fetch a little brandy, or I foresee that you’ll break down.’ + +‘You’re to be obeyed, sir,’ said Mrs Bangham, rising. ‘If you was to put +your own lips to it, I think you wouldn’t be the worse, for you look but +poorly, sir.’ + +‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am not your business, thank you, +but you are mine. Never you mind _me_, if you please. What you have got to +do, is, to do as you are told, and to go and get what I bid you.’ + +Mrs Bangham submitted; and the doctor, having administered her +potion, took his own. He repeated the treatment every hour, being very +determined with Mrs Bangham. Three or four hours passed; the flies +fell into the traps by hundreds; and at length one little life, hardly +stronger than theirs, appeared among the multitude of lesser deaths. + +‘A very nice little girl indeed,’ said the doctor; ‘little, but +well-formed. Halloa, Mrs Bangham! You’re looking queer! You be off, +ma’am, this minute, and fetch a little more brandy, or we shall have you +in hysterics.’ + +By this time, the rings had begun to fall from the debtor’s irresolute +hands, like leaves from a wintry tree. Not one was left upon them that +night, when he put something that chinked into the doctor’s greasy palm. +In the meantime Mrs Bangham had been out on an errand to a neighbouring +establishment decorated with three golden balls, where she was very well +known. + +‘Thank you,’ said the doctor, ‘thank you. Your good lady is quite +composed. Doing charmingly.’ + +‘I am very happy and very thankful to know it,’ said the debtor, ‘though +I little thought once, that--’ + +‘That a child would be born to you in a place like this?’ said the +doctor. ‘Bah, bah, sir, what does it signify? A little more elbow-room +is all we want here. We are quiet here; we don’t get badgered here; +there’s no knocker here, sir, to be hammered at by creditors and bring a +man’s heart into his mouth. Nobody comes here to ask if a man’s at +home, and to say he’ll stand on the door mat till he is. Nobody writes +threatening letters about money to this place. It’s freedom, sir, it’s +freedom! I have had to-day’s practice at home and abroad, on a march, +and aboard ship, and I’ll tell you this: I don’t know that I have ever +pursued it under such quiet circumstances as here this day. Elsewhere, +people are restless, worried, hurried about, anxious respecting one +thing, anxious respecting another. Nothing of the kind here, sir. We +have done all that--we know the worst of it; we have got to the bottom, +we can’t fall, and what have we found? Peace. That’s the word for +it. Peace.’ With this profession of faith, the doctor, who was an old +jail-bird, and was more sodden than usual, and had the additional and +unusual stimulus of money in his pocket, returned to his associate and +chum in hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, +and brandy. + +Now, the debtor was a very different man from the doctor, but he had +already begun to travel, by his opposite segment of the circle, to the +same point. Crushed at first by his imprisonment, he had soon found a +dull relief in it. He was under lock and key; but the lock and key that +kept him in, kept numbers of his troubles out. If he had been a man with +strength of purpose to face those troubles and fight them, he might have +broken the net that held him, or broken his heart; but being what he +was, he languidly slipped into this smooth descent, and never more took +one step upward. + +When he was relieved of the perplexed affairs that nothing would make +plain, through having them returned upon his hands by a dozen agents in +succession who could make neither beginning, middle, nor end of them or +him, he found his miserable place of refuge a quieter refuge than it +had been before. He had unpacked the portmanteau long ago; and his elder +children now played regularly about the yard, and everybody knew the +baby, and claimed a kind of proprietorship in her. + +‘Why, I’m getting proud of you,’ said his friend the turnkey, one day. +‘You’ll be the oldest inhabitant soon. The Marshalsea wouldn’t be like +the Marshalsea now, without you and your family.’ + +The turnkey really was proud of him. He would mention him in laudatory +terms to new-comers, when his back was turned. ‘You took notice of him,’ +he would say, ‘that went out of the lodge just now?’ + +New-comer would probably answer Yes. + +‘Brought up as a gentleman, he was, if ever a man was. Ed’cated at no +end of expense. Went into the Marshal’s house once to try a new piano +for him. Played it, I understand, like one o’clock--beautiful! As to +languages--speaks anything. We’ve had a Frenchman here in his time, and +it’s my opinion he knowed more French than the Frenchman did. We’ve had +an Italian here in his time, and he shut _him_ up in about half a minute. +You’ll find some characters behind other locks, I don’t say you won’t; +but if you want the top sawyer in such respects as I’ve mentioned, you +must come to the Marshalsea.’ + +When his youngest child was eight years old, his wife, who had long been +languishing away--of her own inherent weakness, not that she retained +any greater sensitiveness as to her place of abode than he did--went +upon a visit to a poor friend and old nurse in the country, and died +there. He remained shut up in his room for a fortnight afterwards; +and an attorney’s clerk, who was going through the Insolvent Court, +engrossed an address of condolence to him, which looked like a Lease, +and which all the prisoners signed. When he appeared again he was +greyer (he had soon begun to turn grey); and the turnkey noticed that +his hands went often to his trembling lips again, as they had used to do +when he first came in. But he got pretty well over it in a month or +two; and in the meantime the children played about the yard as regularly +as ever, but in black. + +Then Mrs Bangham, long popular medium of communication with the outer +world, began to be infirm, and to be found oftener than usual comatose +on pavements, with her basket of purchases spilt, and the change of her +clients ninepence short. His son began to supersede Mrs Bangham, and +to execute commissions in a knowing manner, and to be of the prison +prisonous, of the streets streety. + +Time went on, and the turnkey began to fail. His chest swelled, and his +legs got weak, and he was short of breath. The well-worn wooden stool +was ‘beyond him,’ he complained. He sat in an arm-chair with a cushion, +and sometimes wheezed so, for minutes together, that he couldn’t turn +the key. When he was overpowered by these fits, the debtor often turned +it for him. + +‘You and me,’ said the turnkey, one snowy winter’s night when the lodge, +with a bright fire in it, was pretty full of company, ‘is the oldest +inhabitants. I wasn’t here myself above seven year before you. I shan’t +last long. When I’m off the lock for good and all, you’ll be the Father +of the Marshalsea.’ + +The turnkey went off the lock of this world next day. His words were +remembered and repeated; and tradition afterwards handed down from +generation to generation--a Marshalsea generation might be calculated as +about three months--that the shabby old debtor with the soft manner and +the white hair, was the Father of the Marshalsea. + +And he grew to be proud of the title. If any impostor had arisen to +claim it, he would have shed tears in resentment of the attempt to +deprive him of his rights. A disposition began to be perceived in him +to exaggerate the number of years he had been there; it was generally +understood that you must deduct a few from his account; he was vain, the +fleeting generations of debtors said. + +All new-comers were presented to him. He was punctilious in the exaction +of this ceremony. The wits would perform the office of introduction with +overcharged pomp and politeness, but they could not easily overstep his +sense of its gravity. He received them in his poor room (he disliked an +introduction in the mere yard, as informal--a thing that might happen +to anybody), with a kind of bowed-down beneficence. They were welcome to +the Marshalsea, he would tell them. Yes, he was the Father of the place. +So the world was kind enough to call him; and so he was, if more than +twenty years of residence gave him a claim to the title. It looked +small at first, but there was very good company there--among a +mixture--necessarily a mixture--and very good air. + +It became a not unusual circumstance for letters to be put under his +door at night, enclosing half-a-crown, two half-crowns, now and then at +long intervals even half-a-sovereign, for the Father of the Marshalsea. +‘With the compliments of a collegian taking leave.’ He received the +gifts as tributes, from admirers, to a public character. Sometimes +these correspondents assumed facetious names, as the Brick, Bellows, Old +Gooseberry, Wideawake, Snooks, Mops, Cutaway, the Dogs-meat Man; but he +considered this in bad taste, and was always a little hurt by it. + +In the fulness of time, this correspondence showing signs of wearing +out, and seeming to require an effort on the part of the correspondents +to which in the hurried circumstances of departure many of them might +not be equal, he established the custom of attending collegians of +a certain standing, to the gate, and taking leave of them there. The +collegian under treatment, after shaking hands, would occasionally +stop to wrap up something in a bit of paper, and would come back again +calling ‘Hi!’ + +He would look round surprised.’Me?’ he would say, with a smile. + +By this time the collegian would be up with him, and he would paternally +add, VWhat have you forgotten? What can I do for you?’ + +‘I forgot to leave this,’ the collegian would usually return, ‘for the +Father of the Marshalsea.’ + +‘My good sir,’ he would rejoin, ‘he is infinitely obliged to you.’ But, +to the last, the irresolute hand of old would remain in the pocket into +which he had slipped the money during two or three turns about the yard, +lest the transaction should be too conspicuous to the general body of +collegians. + +One afternoon he had been doing the honours of the place to a rather +large party of collegians, who happened to be going out, when, as he was +coming back, he encountered one from the poor side who had been taken in +execution for a small sum a week before, had ‘settled’ in the course of +that afternoon, and was going out too. The man was a mere Plasterer in +his working dress; had his wife with him, and a bundle; and was in high +spirits. + +‘God bless you, sir,’ he said in passing. + +‘And you,’ benignantly returned the Father of the Marshalsea. + +They were pretty far divided, going their several ways, when the +Plasterer called out, ‘I say!--sir!’ and came back to him. + +‘It ain’t much,’ said the Plasterer, putting a little pile of halfpence +in his hand, ‘but it’s well meant.’ + +The Father of the Marshalsea had never been offered tribute in copper +yet. His children often had, and with his perfect acquiescence it had +gone into the common purse to buy meat that he had eaten, and drink that +he had drunk; but fustian splashed with white lime, bestowing halfpence +on him, front to front, was new. + +‘How dare you!’ he said to the man, and feebly burst into tears. + +The Plasterer turned him towards the wall, that his face might not be +seen; and the action was so delicate, and the man was so penetrated with +repentance, and asked pardon so honestly, that he could make him no less +acknowledgment than, ‘I know you meant it kindly. Say no more.’ + +‘Bless your soul, sir,’ urged the Plasterer, ‘I did indeed. I’d do more +by you than the rest of ‘em do, I fancy.’ + +‘What would you do?’ he asked. + +‘I’d come back to see you, after I was let out.’ + +‘Give me the money again,’ said the other, eagerly, ‘and I’ll keep it, +and never spend it. Thank you for it, thank you! I shall see you again?’ + +‘If I live a week you shall.’ + +They shook hands and parted. The collegians, assembled in Symposium in +the Snuggery that night, marvelled what had happened to their Father; he +walked so late in the shadows of the yard, and seemed so downcast. + + + + +CHAPTER 7. The Child of the Marshalsea + + +The baby whose first draught of air had been tinctured with Doctor +Haggage’s brandy, was handed down among the generations of collegians, +like the tradition of their common parent. In the earlier stages of her +existence, she was handed down in a literal and prosaic sense; it being +almost a part of the entrance footing of every new collegian to nurse +the child who had been born in the college. + +‘By rights,’ remarked the turnkey when she was first shown to him, ‘I +ought to be her godfather.’ + +The debtor irresolutely thought of it for a minute, and said, ‘Perhaps +you wouldn’t object to really being her godfather?’ + +‘Oh! _I_ don’t object,’ replied the turnkey, ‘if you don’t.’ + +Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when +the turnkey, being relieved, was off the lock; and that the turnkey +went up to the font of Saint George’s Church, and promised and vowed and +renounced on her behalf, as he himself related when he came back, ‘like +a good ‘un.’ + +This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child, +over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and talk, +he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by the +high fender of the lodge fire-place; liked to have her company when he +was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come and talk +to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey that +she would come climbing up the lodge-steps of her own accord at all +hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the +high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket-handkerchief; +and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll which soon came +to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock, and to bear a horrible +family resemblance to Mrs Bangham--he would contemplate her from the +top of his stool with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing these things, +the collegians would express an opinion that the turnkey, who was a +bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the turnkey +thanked them, and said, ‘No, on the whole it was enough to see other +people’s children there.’ + +At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceive +that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow +yards surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, would be a +difficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creature +indeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge that her clasp of her +father’s hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great key +opened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it, +his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive look, with +which she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young, +was perhaps a part of this discovery. + +With a pitiful and plaintive look for everything, indeed, but with +something in it for only him that was like protection, this Child of +the Marshalsea and the child of the Father of the Marshalsea, sat by her +friend the turnkey in the lodge, kept the family room, or wandered about +the prison-yard, for the first eight years of her life. With a pitiful +and plaintive look for her wayward sister; for her idle brother; for the +high blank walls; for the faded crowd they shut in; for the games of the +prison children as they whooped and ran, and played at hide-and-seek, +and made the iron bars of the inner gateway ‘Home.’ + +Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high +fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, +until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between +her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too. + +‘Thinking of the fields,’ the turnkey said once, after watching her, +‘ain’t you?’ + +‘Where are they?’ she inquired. + +‘Why, they’re--over there, my dear,’ said the turnkey, with a vague +flourish of his key. ‘Just about there.’ + +‘Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?’ + +The turnkey was discomfited. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Not in general.’ + +‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, by his own particular +request and instruction. + +‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups, and there’s daisies, +and there’s’--the turnkey hesitated, being short of floral +nomenclature--‘there’s dandelions, and all manner of games.’ + +‘Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?’ + +‘Prime,’ said the turnkey. + +‘Was father ever there?’ + +‘Hem!’ coughed the turnkey. ‘O yes, he was there, sometimes.’ + +‘Is he sorry not to be there now?’ + +‘N-not particular,’ said the turnkey. + +‘Nor any of the people?’ she asked, glancing at the listless crowd +within. ‘O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?’ + +At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed the +subject to hard-bake: always his last resource when he found his little +friend getting him into a political, social, or theological corner. +But this was the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two +curious companions made together. They used to issue from the lodge on +alternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadows +or green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in +the course of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bring +home, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards, there were tea-gardens, +shrimps, ale, and other delicacies; and then they would come back hand +in hand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep +on his shoulder. + +In those early days, the turnkey first began profoundly to consider +a question which cost him so much mental labour, that it remained +undetermined on the day of his death. He decided to will and bequeath +his little property of savings to his godchild, and the point arose how +could it be so ‘tied up’ as that only she should have the benefit of +it? His experience on the lock gave him such an acute perception of the +enormous difficulty of ‘tying up’ money with any approach to tightness, +and contrariwise of the remarkable ease with which it got loose, that +through a series of years he regularly propounded this knotty point to +every new insolvent agent and other professional gentleman who passed in +and out. + +‘Supposing,’ he would say, stating the case with his key on the +professional gentleman’s waistcoat; ‘supposing a man wanted to leave his +property to a young female, and wanted to tie it up so that nobody else +should ever be able to make a grab at it; how would you tie up that +property?’ + +‘Settle it strictly on herself,’ the professional gentleman would +complacently answer. + +‘But look here,’ quoth the turnkey. ‘Supposing she had, say a brother, +say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at that +property when she came into it--how about that?’ + +‘It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim +on it than you,’ would be the professional answer. + +‘Stop a bit,’ said the turnkey. ‘Supposing she was tender-hearted, and +they came over her. Where’s your law for tying it up then?’ + +The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded, was unable to produce +his law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it +all his life, and died intestate after all. + +But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen. +The first half of that space of her life was only just accomplished, +when her pitiful and plaintive look saw her father a widower. From that +time the protection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards him, +became embodied in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon +herself a new relation towards the Father. + +At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting +her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But +this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her, +and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through +this little gate, she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world. + +What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her +sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of the +wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her; lies hidden with +many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which +was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and +laborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of +the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by +love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life! + +With no earthly friend to help her, or so much as to see her, but the +one so strangely assorted; with no knowledge even of the common daily +tone and habits of the common members of the free community who are not +shut up in prisons; born and bred in a social condition, false even with +a reference to the falsest condition outside the walls; drinking from +infancy of a well whose waters had their own peculiar stain, their own +unwholesome and unnatural taste; the Child of the Marshalsea began her +womanly life. + +No matter through what mistakes and discouragements, what ridicule (not +unkindly meant, but deeply felt) of her youth and little figure, what +humble consciousness of her own babyhood and want of strength, even +in the matter of lifting and carrying; through how much weariness +and hopelessness, and how many secret tears; she drudged on, until +recognised as useful, even indispensable. That time came. She took the +place of eldest of the three, in all things but precedence; was the +head of the fallen family; and bore, in her own heart, its anxieties and +shames. + +At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts, that is, could put down +in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted +would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, +by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, +and got her sister and brother sent to day-schools by desultory starts, +during three or four years. There was no instruction for any of them at +home; but she knew well--no one better--that a man so broken as to be +the Father of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children. + +To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own +contriving. Once, among the heterogeneous crowd of inmates there +appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the +dancing-master’s art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen +years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the +dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and preferred her humble +petition. + +‘If you please, I was born here, sir.’ + +‘Oh! You are the young lady, are you?’ said the dancing-master, +surveying the small figure and uplifted face. + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘And what can I do for you?’ said the dancing-master. + +‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you,’ anxiously undrawing the strings of +the little bag; ‘but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to +teach my sister cheap--’ + +‘My child, I’ll teach her for nothing,’ said the dancing-master, +shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever +danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so +apt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant leisure to bestow +upon her (for it took him a matter of ten weeks to set to his creditors, +lead off, turn the Commissioners, and right and left back to his +professional pursuits), that wonderful progress was made. Indeed the +dancing-master was so proud of it, and so wishful to display it before +he left to a few select friends among the collegians, that at six +o’clock on a certain fine morning, a minuet de la cour came off in +the yard--the college-rooms being of too confined proportions for the +purpose--in which so much ground was covered, and the steps were so +conscientiously executed, that the dancing-master, having to play the +kit besides, was thoroughly blown. + +The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master’s +continuing his instruction after his release, emboldened the poor child +to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the +fulness of time a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own +behalf. + +‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she said, looking timidly round the door of +the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: ‘but I was born here.’ + +Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the +milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the +dancing-master had said: + +‘Oh! _You_ are the child, are you?’ + +‘Yes, ma’am.’ + +‘I am sorry I haven’t got anything for you,’ said the milliner, shaking +her head. + +‘It’s not that, ma’am. If you please I want to learn needle-work.’ + +‘Why should you do that,’ returned the milliner, ‘with me before you? It +has not done me much good.’ + +‘Nothing--whatever it is--seems to have done anybody much good who comes +here,’ she returned in all simplicity; ‘but I want to learn just the +same.’ + +‘I am afraid you are so weak, you see,’ the milliner objected. + +‘I don’t think I am weak, ma’am.’ + +‘And you are so very, very little, you see,’ the milliner objected. + +‘Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed,’ returned the Child of the +Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers, +which came so often in her way. The milliner--who was not morose or +hard-hearted, only newly insolvent--was touched, took her in hand with +goodwill, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her +a cunning work-woman in course of time. + +In course of time, and in the very self-same course of time, the Father +of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new flower of character. The +more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea, and the more dependent he +became on the contributions of his changing family, the greater stand +he made by his forlorn gentility. With the same hand that he pocketed +a collegian’s half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the +tears that streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his +daughters’ earning their bread. So, over and above other daily cares, +the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving +the genteel fiction that they were all idle beggars together. + +The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family +group--ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing +no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable +certainty--on whom her protection devolved. Naturally a retired and +simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined at the time +when that calamity fell upon him, further than that he left off washing +himself when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any +more. He had been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days; +and when he fell with his brother, resorted for support to playing a +clarionet as dirty as himself in a small Theatre Orchestra. It was the +theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there +a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted +the task of serving as her escort and guardian, just as he would have +accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast, starvation--anything but soap. + +To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary +for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with the +Father. + +‘Fanny is not going to live with us just now, father. She will be here a +good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle.’ + +‘You surprise me. Why?’ + +‘I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to, and +looked after.’ + +‘A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend to him and +look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You +all go out so much; you all go out so much.’ + +This was to keep up the ceremony and pretence of his having no idea that +Amy herself went out by the day to work. + +‘But we are always glad to come home, father; now, are we not? And as to +Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care of him, it +may be as well for her not quite to live here, always. She was not born +here as I was, you know, father.’ + +‘Well, Amy, well. I don’t quite follow you, but it’s natural I suppose +that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should, +too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way. +Good, good. I’ll not meddle; don’t mind me.’ + +To get her brother out of the prison; out of the succession to Mrs +Bangham in executing commissions, and out of the slang interchange with +very doubtful companions consequent upon both; was her hardest task. At +eighteen he would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to hour, +from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison from whom +he derived anything useful or good, and she could find no patron for him +but her old friend and godfather. + +‘Dear Bob,’ said she, ‘what is to become of poor Tip?’ His name was +Edward, and Ted had been transformed into Tip, within the walls. + +The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of +poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting their +fulfilment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency of running +away and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked him, and said +he didn’t seem to care for his country. + +‘Well, my dear,’ said the turnkey, ‘something ought to be done with him. +Suppose I try and get him into the law?’ + +‘That would be so good of you, Bob!’ + +The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen as +they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly that +a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the +office of an attorney in a great National Palladium called the Palace +Court; at that time one of a considerable list of everlasting bulwarks +to the dignity and safety of Albion, whose places know them no more. + +Tip languished in Clifford’s Inns for six months, and at the expiration +of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, +and incidentally observed to his sister that he was not going back +again. + +‘Not going back again?’ said the poor little anxious Child of the +Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank +of her charges. + +‘I am so tired of it,’ said Tip, ‘that I have cut it.’ + +Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, and Mrs +Bangham succession, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, +got him into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop trade, +into the law again, into an auctioneers, into a brewery, into a +stockbroker’s, into the law again, into a coach office, into a waggon +office, into the law again, into a general dealer’s, into a distillery, +into the law again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the +Billingsgate trade, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. +But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired, announcing that he +had cut it. Wherever he went, this foredoomed Tip appeared to take the +prison walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; +and to prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slip-shod, +purposeless, down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls +asserted their fascination over him, and brought him back. + +Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her +brother’s rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes, +she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he +was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, +he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her +bosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a +straight course at last. + +‘God bless you, dear Tip. Don’t be too proud to come and see us, when +you have made your fortune.’ + +‘All right!’ said Tip, and went. + +But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. +After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself +so strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk back +again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at +the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired +than ever. + +At length, after another interval of successorship to Mrs Bangham, he +found a pursuit for himself, and announced it. + +‘Amy, I have got a situation.’ + +‘Have you really and truly, Tip?’ + +‘All right. I shall do now. You needn’t look anxious about me any more, +old girl.’ + +‘What is it, Tip?’ + +‘Why, you know Slingo by sight?’ + +‘Not the man they call the dealer?’ + +‘That’s the chap. He’ll be out on Monday, and he’s going to give me a +berth.’ + +‘What is he a dealer in, Tip?’ + +‘Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy.’ + +She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him +once. A whisper passed among the elder collegians that he had been seen +at a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for +massive silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in +bank notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at +work--standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above +the wall--when he opened the door and walked in. + +She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any questions. He +saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry. + +‘I am afraid, Amy, you’ll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!’ + +‘I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?’ + +‘Why--yes.’ + +‘Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, +I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip.’ + +‘Ah! But that’s not the worst of it.’ + +‘Not the worst of it?’ + +‘Don’t look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back, +you see; but--_don’t_ look so startled--I have come back in what I may +call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, as +one of the regulars.’ + +‘Oh! Don’t say you are a prisoner, Tip! Don’t, don’t!’ + +‘Well, I don’t want to say it,’ he returned in a reluctant tone; ‘but if +you can’t understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am in +for forty pound odd.’ + +For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She +cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill +their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip’s graceless feet. + +It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring +_him_ to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside +himself if he knew the truth. The thing was incomprehensible to Tip, and +altogether a fanciful notion. He yielded to it in that light only, when +he submitted to her entreaties, backed by those of his uncle and sister. +There was no want of precedent for his return; it was accounted for +to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better +comprehension of the pious fraud than Tip, supported it loyally. + +This was the life, and this the history, of the child of the Marshalsea +at twenty-two. With a still surviving attachment to the one miserable +yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and +fro in it shrinkingly now, with a womanly consciousness that she was +pointed out to every one. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, +she had found it necessary to conceal where she lived, and to come and +go as secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, +outside of which she had never slept in her life. Her original timidity +had grown with this concealment, and her light step and her little +figure shunned the thronged streets while they passed along them. + +Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all +things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, +and the prison, and the turbid living river that flowed through it and +flowed on. + +This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; now going +home upon a dull September evening, observed at a distance by Arthur +Clennam. This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; +turning at the end of London Bridge, recrossing it, going back again, +passing on to Saint George’s Church, turning back suddenly once more, +and flitting in at the open outer gate and little court-yard of the +Marshalsea. + + + + +CHAPTER 8. The Lock + + +Arthur Clennam stood in the street, waiting to ask some passer-by what +place that was. He suffered a few people to pass him in whose face there +was no encouragement to make the inquiry, and still stood pausing in the +street, when an old man came up and turned into the courtyard. + +He stooped a good deal, and plodded along in a slow pre-occupied manner, +which made the bustling London thoroughfares no very safe resort for +him. He was dirtily and meanly dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue, +reaching to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, where it vanished in +the pale ghost of a velvet collar. A piece of red cloth with which that +phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime was now laid bare, and poked +itself up, at the back of the old man’s neck, into a confusion of grey +hair and rusty stock and buckle which altogether nearly poked his +hat off. A greasy hat it was, and a napless; impending over his eyes, +cracked and crumpled at the brim, and with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief +dangling out below it. His trousers were so long and loose, and his +shoes so clumsy and large, that he shuffled like an elephant; though how +much of this was gait, and how much trailing cloth and leather, no one +could have told. Under one arm he carried a limp and worn-out case, +containing some wind instrument; in the same hand he had a pennyworth +of snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, from which he slowly +comforted his poor blue old nose with a lengthened-out pinch, as Arthur +Clennam looked at him. + +To this old man crossing the court-yard, he preferred his inquiry, +touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped and looked round, with +the expression in his weak grey eyes of one whose thoughts had been far +off, and who was a little dull of hearing also. + +‘Pray, sir,’ said Arthur, repeating his question, ‘what is this place?’ + +‘Ay! This place?’ returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on +its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. ‘This is the +Marshalsea, sir.’ + +‘The debtors’ prison?’ + +‘Sir,’ said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary +to insist upon that designation, ‘the debtors’ prison.’ + +He turned himself about, and went on. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said Arthur, stopping him once more, ‘but will you +allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?’ + +‘Any one can _go in_,’ replied the old man; plainly adding by the +significance of his emphasis, ‘but it is not every one who can go out.’ + +‘Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?’ + +‘Sir,’ returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his +hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him. +‘I am.’ + +‘I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good +object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?’ + +‘My name, sir,’ replied the old man most unexpectedly, ‘is Dorrit.’ + +Arthur pulled off his hat to him. ‘Grant me the favour of half-a-dozen +words. I was wholly unprepared for your announcement, and hope that +assurance is my sufficient apology for having taken the liberty of +addressing you. I have recently come home to England after a long +absence. I have seen at my mother’s--Mrs Clennam in the city--a young +woman working at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken +of as Little Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have +had a great desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a +minute before you came up, pass in at that door.’ + +The old man looked at him attentively. ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ he +asked. He seemed a little disappointed by the shake of the head that +replied to him. ‘Not a sailor? I judged from your sunburnt face that you +might be. Are you in earnest, sir?’ + +‘I do assure you that I am, and do entreat you to believe that I am, in +plain earnest.’ + +‘I know very little of the world, sir,’ returned the other, who had a +weak and quavering voice. ‘I am merely passing on, like the shadow over +the sun-dial. It would be worth no man’s while to mislead me; it would +really be too easy--too poor a success, to yield any satisfaction. The +young woman whom you saw go in here is my brother’s child. My brother +is William Dorrit; I am Frederick. You say you have seen her at your +mother’s (I know your mother befriends her), you have felt an interest +in her, and you wish to know what she does here. Come and see.’ + +He went on again, and Arthur accompanied him. + +‘My brother,’ said the old man, pausing on the step and slowly facing +round again, ‘has been here many years; and much that happens even among +ourselves, out of doors, is kept from him for reasons that I needn’t +enter upon now. Be so good as to say nothing of my niece’s working at +her needle. Be so good as to say nothing that goes beyond what is said +among us. If you keep within our bounds, you cannot well be wrong. Now! +Come and see.’ + +Arthur followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key was +turned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them into +a lodge or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another door +and a grating into the prison. The old man always plodding on before, +turned round, in his slow, stiff, stooping manner, when they came to the +turnkey on duty, as if to present his companion. The turnkey nodded; and +the companion passed in without being asked whom he wanted. + +The night was dark; and the prison lamps in the yard, and the candles in +the prison windows faintly shining behind many sorts of wry old curtain +and blind, had not the air of making it lighter. A few people loitered +about, but the greater part of the population was within doors. The old +man, taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third or +fourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs. ‘They are rather dark, +sir, but you will not find anything in the way.’ + +He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second story. He had +no sooner turned the handle than the visitor saw Little Dorrit, and saw +the reason of her setting so much store by dining alone. + +She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself, and +was already warming it on a gridiron over the fire for her father, clad +in an old grey gown and a black cap, awaiting his supper at the table. +A clean cloth was spread before him, with knife, fork, and spoon, +salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter ale-pot. Such zests as his +particular little phial of cayenne pepper and his pennyworth of pickles +in a saucer, were not wanting. + +She started, coloured deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more with +his eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand, entreated her +to be reassured and to trust him. + +‘I found this gentleman,’ said the uncle--‘Mr Clennam, William, son of +Amy’s friend--at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying +his respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not. This is my +brother William, sir.’ + +‘I hope,’ said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, ‘that my respect for +your daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented to you, +sir.’ + +‘Mr Clennam,’ returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in the +flat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, ‘you do me +honour. You are welcome, sir;’ with a low bow. ‘Frederick, a chair. Pray +sit down, Mr Clennam.’ + +He put his black cap on again as he had taken it off, and resumed his +own seat. There was a wonderful air of benignity and patronage in his +manner. These were the ceremonies with which he received the collegians. + +‘You are welcome to the Marshalsea, sir. I have welcomed many gentlemen +to these walls. Perhaps you are aware--my daughter Amy may have +mentioned that I am the Father of this place.’ + +‘I--so I have understood,’ said Arthur, dashing at the assertion. + +‘You know, I dare say, that my daughter Amy was born here. A good girl, +sir, a dear girl, and long a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear, +put this dish on; Mr Clennam will excuse the primitive customs to which +we are reduced here. Is it a compliment to ask you if you would do me +the honour, sir, to--’ + +‘Thank you,’ returned Arthur. ‘Not a morsel.’ + +He felt himself quite lost in wonder at the manner of the man, and that +the probability of his daughter’s having had a reserve as to her family +history, should be so far out of his mind. + +She filled his glass, put all the little matters on the table ready to +his hand, and then sat beside him while he ate his supper. Evidently in +observance of their nightly custom, she put some bread before herself, +and touched his glass with her lips; but Arthur saw she was troubled +and took nothing. Her look at her father, half admiring him and proud +of him, half ashamed for him, all devoted and loving, went to his inmost +heart. + +The Father of the Marshalsea condescended towards his brother as an +amiable, well-meaning man; a private character, who had not arrived at +distinction. ‘Frederick,’ said he, ‘you and Fanny sup at your lodgings +to-night, I know. What have you done with Fanny, Frederick?’ + +‘She is walking with Tip.’ + +‘Tip--as you may know--is my son, Mr Clennam. He has been a little +wild, and difficult to settle, but his introduction to the world was +rather’--he shrugged his shoulders with a faint sigh, and looked round +the room--‘a little adverse. Your first visit here, sir?’ + +‘My first.’ + +‘You could hardly have been here since your boyhood without my +knowledge. It very seldom happens that anybody--of any pretensions--any +pretensions--comes here without being presented to me.’ + +‘As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,’ +said Frederick, faintly lighting up with a ray of pride. + +‘Yes!’ the Father of the Marshalsea assented. ‘We have even exceeded +that number. On a fine Sunday in term time, it is quite a Levee--quite +a Levee. Amy, my dear, I have been trying half the day to remember the +name of the gentleman from Camberwell who was introduced to me last +Christmas week by that agreeable coal-merchant who was remanded for six +months.’ + +‘I don’t remember his name, father.’ + +‘Frederick, do _you_ remember his name?’ + +Frederick doubted if he had ever heard it. No one could doubt that +Frederick was the last person upon earth to put such a question to, with +any hope of information. + +‘I mean,’ said his brother, ‘the gentleman who did that handsome action +with so much delicacy. Ha! Tush! The name has quite escaped me. Mr +Clennam, as I have happened to mention handsome and delicate action, you +may like, perhaps, to know what it was.’ + +‘Very much,’ said Arthur, withdrawing his eyes from the delicate head +beginning to droop and the pale face with a new solicitude stealing over +it. + +‘It is so generous, and shows so much fine feeling, that it is almost a +duty to mention it. I said at the time that I always would mention it +on every suitable occasion, without regard to personal sensitiveness. +A--well--a--it’s of no use to disguise the fact--you must know, Mr +Clennam, that it does sometimes occur that people who come here desire +to offer some little--Testimonial--to the Father of the place.’ + +To see her hand upon his arm in mute entreaty half-repressed, and her +timid little shrinking figure turning away, was to see a sad, sad sight. + +‘Sometimes,’ he went on in a low, soft voice, agitated, and clearing +his throat every now and then; ‘sometimes--hem--it takes one shape and +sometimes another; but it is generally--ha--Money. And it is, I cannot +but confess it, it is too often--hem--acceptable. This gentleman that I +refer to, was presented to me, Mr Clennam, in a manner highly gratifying +to my feelings, and conversed not only with great politeness, but with +great--ahem--information.’ All this time, though he had finished his +supper, he was nervously going about his plate with his knife and +fork, as if some of it were still before him. ‘It appeared from his +conversation that he had a garden, though he was delicate of mentioning +it at first, as gardens are--hem--are not accessible to me. But it came +out, through my admiring a very fine cluster of geranium--beautiful +cluster of geranium to be sure--which he had brought from his +conservatory. On my taking notice of its rich colour, he showed me a +piece of paper round it, on which was written, “For the Father of the +Marshalsea,” and presented it to me. But this was--hem--not all. He made +a particular request, on taking leave, that I would remove the paper in +half an hour. I--ha--I did so; and I found that it contained--ahem--two +guineas. I assure you, Mr Clennam, I have received--hem--Testimonials +in many ways, and of many degrees of value, and they have always +been--ha--unfortunately acceptable; but I never was more pleased than +with this--ahem--this particular Testimonial.’ + +Arthur was in the act of saying the little he could say on such a theme, +when a bell began to ring, and footsteps approached the door. A pretty +girl of a far better figure and much more developed than Little Dorrit, +though looking much younger in the face when the two were observed +together, stopped in the doorway on seeing a stranger; and a young man +who was with her, stopped too. + +‘Mr Clennam, Fanny. My eldest daughter and my son, Mr Clennam. The bell +is a signal for visitors to retire, and so they have come to say good +night; but there is plenty of time, plenty of time. Girls, Mr Clennam +will excuse any household business you may have together. He knows, I +dare say, that I have but one room here.’ + +‘I only want my clean dress from Amy, father,’ said the second girl. + +‘And I my clothes,’ said Tip. + +Amy opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture that was a chest of +drawers above and a bedstead below, and produced two little bundles, +which she handed to her brother and sister. ‘Mended and made up?’ +Clennam heard the sister ask in a whisper. To which Amy answered ‘Yes.’ +He had risen now, and took the opportunity of glancing round the room. +The bare walls had been coloured green, evidently by an unskilled hand, +and were poorly decorated with a few prints. The window was curtained, +and the floor carpeted; and there were shelves and pegs, and other such +conveniences, that had accumulated in the course of years. It was a +close, confined room, poorly furnished; and the chimney smoked to boot, +or the tin screen at the top of the fireplace was superfluous; but +constant pains and care had made it neat, and even, after its kind, +comfortable. + +All the while the bell was ringing, and the uncle was anxious to go. +‘Come, Fanny, come, Fanny,’ he said, with his ragged clarionet case +under his arm; ‘the lock, child, the lock!’ + +Fanny bade her father good night, and whisked off airily. Tip had +already clattered down-stairs. ‘Now, Mr Clennam,’ said the uncle, +looking back as he shuffled out after them, ‘the lock, sir, the lock.’ + +Mr Clennam had two things to do before he followed; one, to offer his +testimonial to the Father of the Marshalsea, without giving pain to his +child; the other to say something to that child, though it were but a +word, in explanation of his having come there. + +‘Allow me,’ said the Father, ‘to see you down-stairs.’ + +She had slipped out after the rest, and they were alone. ‘Not on any +account,’ said the visitor, hurriedly. ‘Pray allow me to--’ chink, +chink, chink. + +‘Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘I am deeply, deeply--’ But his visitor +had shut up his hand to stop the clinking, and had gone down-stairs with +great speed. + +He saw no Little Dorrit on his way down, or in the yard. The last two or +three stragglers were hurrying to the lodge, and he was following, +when he caught sight of her in the doorway of the first house from the +entrance. He turned back hastily. + +‘Pray forgive me,’ he said, ‘for speaking to you here; pray forgive me +for coming here at all! I followed you to-night. I did so, that I might +endeavour to render you and your family some service. You know the +terms on which I and my mother are, and may not be surprised that I +have preserved our distant relations at her house, lest I should +unintentionally make her jealous, or resentful, or do you any injury in +her estimation. What I have seen here, in this short time, has greatly +increased my heartfelt wish to be a friend to you. It would recompense +me for much disappointment if I could hope to gain your confidence.’ + +She was scared at first, but seemed to take courage while he spoke to +her. + +‘You are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But I--but I +wish you had not watched me.’ + +He understood the emotion with which she said it, to arise in her +father’s behalf; and he respected it, and was silent. + +‘Mrs Clennam has been of great service to me; I don’t know what we +should have done without the employment she has given me; I am afraid +it may not be a good return to become secret with her; I can say no more +to-night, sir. I am sure you mean to be kind to us. Thank you, thank +you.’ + +‘Let me ask you one question before I leave. Have you known my mother +long?’ + +‘I think two years, sir,--The bell has stopped.’ + +‘How did you know her first? Did she send here for you?’ + +‘No. She does not even know that I live here. We have a friend, father +and I--a poor labouring man, but the best of friends--and I wrote out +that I wished to do needlework, and gave his address. And he got what +I wrote out displayed at a few places where it cost nothing, and Mrs +Clennam found me that way, and sent for me. The gate will be locked, +sir!’ + +She was so tremulous and agitated, and he was so moved by compassion for +her, and by deep interest in her story as it dawned upon him, that he +could scarcely tear himself away. But the stoppage of the bell, and the +quiet in the prison, were a warning to depart; and with a few hurried +words of kindness he left her gliding back to her father. + +But he remained too late. The inner gate was locked, and the lodge +closed. After a little fruitless knocking with his hand, he was standing +there with the disagreeable conviction upon him that he had got to get +through the night, when a voice accosted him from behind. + +‘Caught, eh?’ said the voice. ‘You won’t go home till morning. Oh! It’s +you, is it, Mr Clennam?’ + +The voice was Tip’s; and they stood looking at one another in the +prison-yard, as it began to rain. + +‘You’ve done it,’ observed Tip; ‘you must be sharper than that next +time.’ + +‘But you are locked in too,’ said Arthur. + +‘I believe I am!’ said Tip, sarcastically. ‘About! But not in your way. +I belong to the shop, only my sister has a theory that our governor must +never know it. I don’t see why, myself.’ + +‘Can I get any shelter?’ asked Arthur. ‘What had I better do?’ + +‘We had better get hold of Amy first of all,’ said Tip, referring any +difficulty to her as a matter of course. + +‘I would rather walk about all night--it’s not much to do--than give +that trouble.’ + +‘You needn’t do that, if you don’t mind paying for a bed. If you don’t +mind paying, they’ll make you up one on the Snuggery table, under the +circumstances. If you’ll come along, I’ll introduce you there.’ + +As they passed down the yard, Arthur looked up at the window of the room +he had lately left, where the light was still burning. ‘Yes, sir,’ said +Tip, following his glance. ‘That’s the governor’s. She’ll sit with him +for another hour reading yesterday’s paper to him, or something of that +sort; and then she’ll come out like a little ghost, and vanish away +without a sound.’ + +‘I don’t understand you.’ + +‘The governor sleeps up in the room, and she has a lodging at the +turnkey’s. First house there,’ said Tip, pointing out the doorway into +which she had retired. ‘First house, sky parlour. She pays twice as much +for it as she would for one twice as good outside. But she stands by the +governor, poor dear girl, day and night.’ + +This brought them to the tavern-establishment at the upper end of the +prison, where the collegians had just vacated their social evening club. +The apartment on the ground-floor in which it was held, was the Snuggery +in question; the presidential tribune of the chairman, the pewter-pots, +glasses, pipes, tobacco-ashes, and general flavour of members, were +still as that convivial institution had left them on its adjournment. +The Snuggery had two of the qualities popularly held to be essential to +grog for ladies, in respect that it was hot and strong; but in the third +point of analogy, requiring plenty of it, the Snuggery was defective; +being but a cooped-up apartment. + +The unaccustomed visitor from outside, naturally assumed everybody here +to be prisoners--landlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy, and all. Whether +they were or not, did not appear; but they all had a weedy look. The +keeper of a chandler’s shop in a front parlour, who took in gentlemen +boarders, lent his assistance in making the bed. He had been a tailor in +his time, and had kept a phaeton, he said. He boasted that he stood up +litigiously for the interests of the college; and he had undefined and +undefinable ideas that the marshal intercepted a ‘Fund,’ which ought to +come to the collegians. He liked to believe this, and always impressed +the shadowy grievance on new-comers and strangers; though he could not, +for his life, have explained what Fund he meant, or how the notion had +got rooted in his soul. He had fully convinced himself, notwithstanding, +that his own proper share of the Fund was three and ninepence a week; +and that in this amount he, as an individual collegian, was swindled by +the marshal, regularly every Monday. Apparently, he helped to make the +bed, that he might not lose an opportunity of stating this case; after +which unloading of his mind, and after announcing (as it seemed he +always did, without anything coming of it) that he was going to write a +letter to the papers and show the marshal up, he fell into miscellaneous +conversation with the rest. It was evident from the general tone of the +whole party, that they had come to regard insolvency as the normal state +of mankind, and the payment of debts as a disease that occasionally +broke out. + +In this strange scene, and with these strange spectres flitting about +him, Arthur Clennam looked on at the preparations as if they were part +of a dream. Pending which, the long-initiated Tip, with an awful +enjoyment of the Snuggery’s resources, pointed out the common kitchen +fire maintained by subscription of collegians, the boiler for hot water +supported in like manner, and other premises generally tending to the +deduction that the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise, was to come to +the Marshalsea. + +The two tables put together in a corner, were, at length, converted into +a very fair bed; and the stranger was left to the Windsor chairs, +the presidential tribune, the beery atmosphere, sawdust, pipe-lights, +spittoons and repose. But the last item was long, long, long, in linking +itself to the rest. The novelty of the place, the coming upon it without +preparation, the sense of being locked up, the remembrance of that room +up-stairs, of the two brothers, and above all of the retiring childish +form, and the face in which he now saw years of insufficient food, if +not of want, kept him waking and unhappy. + +Speculations, too, bearing the strangest relations towards the prison, +but always concerning the prison, ran like nightmares through his mind +while he lay awake. Whether coffins were kept ready for people who might +die there, where they were kept, how they were kept, where people who +died in the prison were buried, how they were taken out, what forms were +observed, whether an implacable creditor could arrest the dead? As to +escaping, what chances there were of escape? Whether a prisoner could +scale the walls with a cord and grapple, how he would descend upon +the other side? whether he could alight on a housetop, steal down a +staircase, let himself out at a door, and get lost in the crowd? As to +Fire in the prison, if one were to break out while he lay there? + +And these involuntary starts of fancy were, after all, but the setting +of a picture in which three people kept before him. His father, with the +steadfast look with which he had died, prophetically darkened forth in +the portrait; his mother, with her arm up, warding off his suspicion; +Little Dorrit, with her hand on the degraded arm, and her drooping head +turned away. + +What if his mother had an old reason she well knew for softening to +this poor girl! What if the prisoner now sleeping quietly--Heaven grant +it!--by the light of the great Day of judgment should trace back his +fall to her. What if any act of hers and of his father’s, should have +even remotely brought the grey heads of those two brothers so low! + +A swift thought shot into his mind. In that long imprisonment here, and +in her own long confinement to her room, did his mother find a balance +to be struck? ‘I admit that I was accessory to that man’s captivity. I +have suffered for it in kind. He has decayed in his prison: I in mine. I +have paid the penalty.’ + +When all the other thoughts had faded out, this one held possession +of him. When he fell asleep, she came before him in her wheeled chair, +warding him off with this justification. When he awoke, and sprang up +causelessly frightened, the words were in his ears, as if her voice had +slowly spoken them at his pillow, to break his rest: ‘He withers away in +his prison; I wither away in mine; inexorable justice is done; what do I +owe on this score!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 9. Little Mother + + +The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in +at the Snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have been more +welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with +it. But the equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea, and the impartial +south-west wind, in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow +Marshalsea. While it roared through the steeple of St George’s Church, +and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat +the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys +of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half +suffocated them. + +Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though +his bed had been in a more private situation, and less affected by the +raking out of yesterday’s fire, the kindling of to-day’s under the +collegiate boiler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the +sweeping and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations. +Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he +turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced +the yard for two heavy hours before the gate was opened. + +The walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried +over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning of +sea-sickness to look up at the gusty sky. The rain, carried aslant by +flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central building which he had +visited last night, but left a narrow dry trough under the lee of the +wall, where he walked up and down among the waits of straw and dust +and paper, the waste droppings of the pump, and the stray leaves of +yesterday’s greens. It was as haggard a view of life as a man need look +upon. + +Nor was it relieved by any glimpse of the little creature who had +brought him there. Perhaps she glided out of her doorway and in at that +where her father lived, while his face was turned from both; but he saw +nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; to have seen him once, +was to have seen enough of him to know that he would be sluggish to +leave whatever frowsy bed he occupied at night; so, as Arthur Clennam +walked up and down, waiting for the gate to open, he cast about in +his mind for future rather than for present means of pursuing his +discoveries. + +At last the lodge-gate turned, and the turnkey, standing on the step, +taking an early comb at his hair, was ready to let him out. With a +joyful sense of release he passed through the lodge, and found himself +again in the little outer court-yard where he had spoken to the brother +last night. + +There was a string of people already straggling in, whom it was not +difficult to identify as the nondescript messengers, go-betweens, and +errand-bearers of the place. Some of them had been lounging in the rain +until the gate should open; others, who had timed their arrival +with greater nicety, were coming up now, and passing in with damp +whitey-brown paper bags from the grocers, loaves of bread, lumps of +butter, eggs, milk, and the like. The shabbiness of these attendants +upon shabbiness, the poverty of these insolvent waiters upon insolvency, +was a sight to see. Such threadbare coats and trousers, such fusty gowns +and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such +umbrellas and walking-sticks, never were seen in Rag Fair. All of +them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women, were made up of +patches and pieces of other people’s individuality, and had no sartorial +existence of their own proper. Their walk was the walk of a race apart. +They had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking round the corner, as if +they were eternally going to the pawnbroker’s. When they coughed, they +coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on doorsteps and in +draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink, which +gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental disturbance and no +satisfaction. As they eyed the stranger in passing, they eyed him with +borrowing eyes--hungry, sharp, speculative as to his softness if they +were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his standing something +handsome. Mendicity on commission stooped in their high shoulders, +shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and darned and +dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out of their +figures in dirty little ends of tape, and issued from their mouths in +alcoholic breathings. + +As these people passed him standing still in the court-yard, and one of +them turned back to inquire if he could assist him with his services, +it came into Arthur Clennam’s mind that he would speak to Little Dorrit +again before he went away. She would have recovered her first surprise, +and might feel easier with him. He asked this member of the fraternity +(who had two red herrings in his hand, and a loaf and a blacking brush +under his arm), where was the nearest place to get a cup of coffee +at. The nondescript replied in encouraging terms, and brought him to a +coffee-shop in the street within a stone’s throw. + +‘Do you know Miss Dorrit?’ asked the new client. + +The nondescript knew two Miss Dorrits; one who was born inside--That was +the one! That was the one? The nondescript had known her many years. +In regard of the other Miss Dorrit, the nondescript lodged in the same +house with herself and uncle. + +This changed the client’s half-formed design of remaining at the +coffee-shop until the nondescript should bring him word that Dorrit +had issued forth into the street. He entrusted the nondescript with a +confidential message to her, importing that the visitor who had waited +on her father last night, begged the favour of a few words with her at +her uncle’s lodging; he obtained from the same source full directions to +the house, which was very near; dismissed the nondescript gratified with +half-a-crown; and having hastily refreshed himself at the coffee-shop, +repaired with all speed to the clarionet-player’s dwelling. + +There were so many lodgers in this house that the doorpost seemed to be +as full of bell-handles as a cathedral organ is of stops. Doubtful +which might be the clarionet-stop, he was considering the point, when a +shuttlecock flew out of the parlour window, and alighted on his hat. +He then observed that in the parlour window was a blind with the +inscription, MR CRIPPLES’s ACADEMY; also in another line, EVENING +TUITION; and behind the blind was a little white-faced boy, with a slice +of bread-and-butter and a battledore. The window being accessible from +the footway, he looked in over the blind, returned the shuttlecock, and +put his question. + +‘Dorrit?’ said the little white-faced boy (Master Cripples in fact). +‘_Mr_ Dorrit? Third bell and one knock.’ + +The pupils of Mr Cripples appeared to have been making a copy-book of +the street-door, it was so extensively scribbled over in pencil. The +frequency of the inscriptions, ‘Old Dorrit,’ and ‘Dirty Dick,’ in +combination, suggested intentions of personality on the part Of Mr +Cripples’s pupils. There was ample time to make these observations +before the door was opened by the poor old man himself. + +‘Ha!’ said he, very slowly remembering Arthur, ‘you were shut in last +night?’ + +‘Yes, Mr Dorrit. I hope to meet your niece here presently.’ + +‘Oh!’ said he, pondering. ‘Out of my brother’s way? True. Would you come +up-stairs and wait for her?’ + +‘Thank you.’ + +Turning himself as slowly as he turned in his mind whatever he heard or +said, he led the way up the narrow stairs. The house was very close, and +had an unwholesome smell. The little staircase windows looked in at the +back windows of other houses as unwholesome as itself, with poles and +lines thrust out of them, on which unsightly linen hung; as if the +inhabitants were angling for clothes, and had had some wretched bites +not worth attending to. In the back garret--a sickly room, with a +turn-up bedstead in it, so hastily and recently turned up that the +blankets were boiling over, as it were, and keeping the lid open--a +half-finished breakfast of coffee and toast for two persons was jumbled +down anyhow on a rickety table. + +There was no one there. The old man mumbling to himself, after some +consideration, that Fanny had run away, went to the next room to fetch +her back. The visitor, observing that she held the door on the inside, +and that, when the uncle tried to open it, there was a sharp adjuration +of ‘Don’t, stupid!’ and an appearance of loose stocking and flannel, +concluded that the young lady was in an undress. The uncle, without +appearing to come to any conclusion, shuffled in again, sat down in his +chair, and began warming his hands at the fire; not that it was cold, or +that he had any waking idea whether it was or not. + +‘What did you think of my brother, sir?’ he asked, when he by-and-by +discovered what he was doing, left off, reached over to the +chimney-piece, and took his clarionet case down. + +‘I was glad,’ said Arthur, very much at a loss, for his thoughts were +on the brother before him; ‘to find him so well and cheerful.’ + +‘Ha!’ muttered the old man, ‘yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’ + +Arthur wondered what he could possibly want with the clarionet case. He +did not want it at all. He discovered, in due time, that it was not the +little paper of snuff (which was also on the chimney-piece), put it back +again, took down the snuff instead, and solaced himself with a pinch. He +was as feeble, spare, and slow in his pinches as in everything else, but +a certain little trickling of enjoyment of them played in the poor worn +nerves about the corners of his eyes and mouth. + +‘Amy, Mr Clennam. What do you think of her?’ + +‘I am much impressed, Mr Dorrit, by all that I have seen of her and +thought of her.’ + +‘My brother would have been quite lost without Amy,’ he returned. ‘We +should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good girl, Amy. She +does her duty.’ + +Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of custom, +which he had heard from the father last night with an inward protest and +feeling of antagonism. It was not that they stinted her praises, or +were insensible to what she did for them; but that they were lazily +habituated to her, as they were to all the rest of their condition. +He fancied that although they had before them, every day, the means of +comparison between her and one another and themselves, they regarded her +as being in her necessary place; as holding a position towards them all +which belonged to her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they +viewed her, not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as +appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to expect, +and nothing more. + +Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in +coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was Amy, +he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with as vivid +a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn face, and decayed +figure, as if he were still drooping in his chair. + +She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual +timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat faster +than usual. + +‘Mr Clennam, Amy,’ said her uncle, ‘has been expecting you some time.’ + +‘I took the liberty of sending you a message.’ + +‘I received the message, sir.’ + +‘Are you going to my mother’s this morning? I think not, for it is past +your usual hour.’ + +‘Not to-day, sir. I am not wanted to-day.’ + +‘Will you allow Me to walk a little way in whatever direction you may +be going? I can then speak to you as we walk, both without detaining you +here, and without intruding longer here myself.’ + +She looked embarrassed, but said, if he pleased. He made a pretence of +having mislaid his walking-stick, to give her time to set the bedstead +right, to answer her sister’s impatient knock at the wall, and to say a +word softly to her uncle. Then he found it, and they went down-stairs; +she first, he following; the uncle standing at the stair-head, and +probably forgetting them before they had reached the ground floor. + +Mr Cripples’s pupils, who were by this time coming to school, desisted +from their morning recreation of cuffing one another with bags and +books, to stare with all the eyes they had at a stranger who had been +to see Dirty Dick. They bore the trying spectacle in silence, until the +mysterious visitor was at a safe distance; when they burst into pebbles +and yells, and likewise into reviling dances, and in all respects buried +the pipe of peace with so many savage ceremonies, that, if Mr Cripples +had been the chief of the Cripplewayboo tribe with his war-paint on, +they could scarcely have done greater justice to their education. + +In the midst of this homage, Mr Arthur Clennam offered his arm to Little +Dorrit, and Little Dorrit took it. ‘Will you go by the Iron Bridge,’ +said he, ‘where there is an escape from the noise of the street?’ Little +Dorrit answered, if he pleased, and presently ventured to hope that he +would ‘not mind’ Mr Cripples’s boys, for she had herself received +her education, such as it was, in Mr Cripples’s evening academy. He +returned, with the best will in the world, that Mr Cripples’s boys were +forgiven out of the bottom of his soul. Thus did Cripples unconsciously +become a master of the ceremonies between them, and bring them more +naturally together than Beau Nash might have done if they had lived +in his golden days, and he had alighted from his coach and six for the +purpose. + +The morning remained squally, and the streets were miserably muddy, but +no rain fell as they walked towards the Iron Bridge. The little creature +seemed so young in his eyes, that there were moments when he found +himself thinking of her, if not speaking to her, as if she were a child. +Perhaps he seemed as old in her eyes as she seemed young in his. + +‘I am sorry to hear you were so inconvenienced last night, sir, as to be +locked in. It was very unfortunate.’ + +It was nothing, he returned. He had had a very good bed. + +‘Oh yes!’ she said quickly; ‘she believed there were excellent beds at +the coffee-house.’ He noticed that the coffee-house was quite a majestic +hotel to her, and that she treasured its reputation. + +‘I believe it is very expensive,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘but my father has +told me that quite beautiful dinners may be got there. And wine,’ she +added timidly. + +‘Were you ever there?’ + +‘Oh no! Only into the kitchen to fetch hot water.’ + +To think of growing up with a kind of awe upon one as to the luxuries of +that superb establishment, the Marshalsea Hotel! + +‘I asked you last night,’ said Clennam, ‘how you had become acquainted +with my mother. Did you ever hear her name before she sent for you?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +‘Do you think your father ever did?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +He met her eyes raised to his with so much wonder in them (she was +scared when the encounter took place, and shrunk away again), that he +felt it necessary to say: + +‘I have a reason for asking, which I cannot very well explain; but you +must, on no account, suppose it to be of a nature to cause you the least +alarm or anxiety. Quite the reverse. And you think that at no time of +your father’s life was my name of Clennam ever familiar to him?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +He felt, from the tone in which she spoke, that she was glancing up at +him with those parted lips; therefore he looked before him, rather than +make her heart beat quicker still by embarrassing her afresh. + +Thus they emerged upon the Iron Bridge, which was as quiet after the +roaring streets as though it had been open country. The wind blew +roughly, the wet squalls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on +the road and pavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds +raced on furiously in the lead-coloured sky, the smoke and mist raced +after them, the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction. +Little Dorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven’s +creatures. + +‘Let me put you in a coach,’ said Clennam, very nearly adding ‘my poor +child.’ + +She hurriedly declined, saying that wet or dry made little difference to +her; she was used to go about in all weathers. He knew it to be so, and +was touched with more pity; thinking of the slight figure at his side, +making its nightly way through the damp dark boisterous streets to such +a place of rest. + +‘You spoke so feelingly to me last night, sir, and I found afterwards +that you had been so generous to my father, that I could not resist your +message, if it was only to thank you; especially as I wished very much +to say to you--’ she hesitated and trembled, and tears rose in her eyes, +but did not fall. + +‘To say to me--?’ + +‘That I hope you will not misunderstand my father. Don’t judge him, sir, +as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been there so long! +I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must have grown +different in some things since.’ + +‘My thoughts will never be unjust or harsh towards him, believe me.’ + +‘Not,’ she said, with a prouder air, as the misgiving evidently crept +upon her that she might seem to be abandoning him, ‘not that he has +anything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to be +ashamed of for him. He only requires to be understood. I only ask for +him that his life may be fairly remembered. All that he said was quite +true. It all happened just as he related it. He is very much respected. +Everybody who comes in, is glad to know him. He is more courted than +anyone else. He is far more thought of than the Marshal is.’ + +If ever pride were innocent, it was innocent in Little Dorrit when she +grew boastful of her father. + +‘It is often said that his manners are a true gentleman’s, and quite +a study. I see none like them in that place, but he is admitted to +be superior to all the rest. This is quite as much why they make him +presents, as because they know him to be needy. He is not to be blamed +for being in need, poor love. Who could be in prison a quarter of a +century, and be prosperous!’ + +What affection in her words, what compassion in her repressed tears, +what a great soul of fidelity within her, how true the light that shed +false brightness round him! + +‘If I have found it best to conceal where my home is, it is not because +I am ashamed of him. God forbid! Nor am I so much ashamed of the place +itself as might be supposed. People are not bad because they come there. +I have known numbers of good, persevering, honest people come there +through misfortune. They are almost all kind-hearted to one another. +And it would be ungrateful indeed in me, to forget that I have had many +quiet, comfortable hours there; that I had an excellent friend there +when I was quite a baby, who was very very fond of me; that I have been +taught there, and have worked there, and have slept soundly there. I +think it would be almost cowardly and cruel not to have some little +attachment for it, after all this.’ + +She had relieved the faithful fulness of her heart, and modestly said, +raising her eyes appealingly to her new friend’s, ‘I did not mean to say +so much, nor have I ever but once spoken about this before. But it seems +to set it more right than it was last night. I said I wished you had +not followed me, sir. I don’t wish it so much now, unless you should +think--indeed I don’t wish it at all, unless I should have spoken so +confusedly, that--that you can scarcely understand me, which I am afraid +may be the case.’ + +He told her with perfect truth that it was not the case; and putting +himself between her and the sharp wind and rain, sheltered her as well +as he could. + +‘I feel permitted now,’ he said, ‘to ask you a little more concerning +your father. Has he many creditors?’ + +‘Oh! a great number.’ + +‘I mean detaining creditors, who keep him where he is?’ + +‘Oh yes! a great number.’ + +‘Can you tell me--I can get the information, no doubt, elsewhere, if you +cannot--who is the most influential of them?’ + +Little Dorrit said, after considering a little, that she used to +hear long ago of Mr Tite Barnacle as a man of great power. He was a +commissioner, or a board, or a trustee, ‘or something.’ He lived +in Grosvenor Square, she thought, or very near it. He was under +Government--high in the Circumlocution Office. She appeared to have +acquired, in her infancy, some awful impression of the might of this +formidable Mr Tite Barnacle of Grosvenor Square, or very near it, and +the Circumlocution Office, which quite crushed her when she mentioned +him. + +‘It can do no harm,’ thought Arthur, ‘if I see this Mr Tite Barnacle.’ + +The thought did not present itself so quietly but that her quickness +intercepted it. ‘Ah!’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the mild +despair of a lifetime. ‘Many people used to think once of getting my +poor father out, but you don’t know how hopeless it is.’ + +She forgot to be shy at the moment, in honestly warning him away from +the sunken wreck he had a dream of raising; and looked at him with +eyes which assuredly, in association with her patient face, her fragile +figure, her spare dress, and the wind and rain, did not turn him from +his purpose of helping her. + +‘Even if it could be done,’ said she--‘and it never can be done +now--where could father live, or how could he live? I have often thought +that if such a change could come, it might be anything but a service to +him now. People might not think so well of him outside as they do there. +He might not be so gently dealt with outside as he is there. He might +not be so fit himself for the life outside as he is for that.’ + +Here for the first time she could not restrain her tears from falling; +and the little thin hands he had watched when they were so busy, +trembled as they clasped each other. + +‘It would be a new distress to him even to know that I earn a little +money, and that Fanny earns a little money. He is so anxious about us, +you see, feeling helplessly shut up there. Such a good, good father!’ + +He let the little burst of feeling go by before he spoke. It was soon +gone. She was not accustomed to think of herself, or to trouble any one +with her emotions. He had but glanced away at the piles of city roofs +and chimneys among which the smoke was rolling heavily, and at the +wilderness of masts on the river, and the wilderness of steeples on +the shore, indistinctly mixed together in the stormy haze, when she +was again as quiet as if she had been plying her needle in his mother’s +room. + +‘You would be glad to have your brother set at liberty?’ + +‘Oh very, very glad, sir!’ + +‘Well, we will hope for him at least. You told me last night of a friend +you had?’ + +His name was Plornish, Little Dorrit said. + +And where did Plornish live? Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. He +was ‘only a plasterer,’ Little Dorrit said, as a caution to him not to +form high social expectations of Plornish. He lived at the last house in +Bleeding Heart Yard, and his name was over a little gateway. + +Arthur took down the address and gave her his. He had now done all he +sought to do for the present, except that he wished to leave her with a +reliance upon him, and to have something like a promise from her that +she would cherish it. + +‘There is one friend!’ he said, putting up his pocketbook. ‘As I take +you back--you are going back?’ + +‘Oh yes! going straight home.’ + +‘--As I take you back,’ the word home jarred upon him, ‘let me ask you to +persuade yourself that you have another friend. I make no professions, +and say no more.’ + +‘You are truly kind to me, sir. I am sure I need no more.’ + +They walked back through the miserable muddy streets, and among the +poor, mean shops, and were jostled by the crowds of dirty hucksters +usual to a poor neighbourhood. There was nothing, by the short way, that +was pleasant to any of the five senses. Yet it was not a common passage +through common rain, and mire, and noise, to Clennam, having this +little, slender, careful creature on his arm. How young she seemed to +him, or how old he to her; or what a secret either to the other, in that +beginning of the destined interweaving of their stories, matters not +here. He thought of her having been born and bred among these scenes, +and shrinking through them now, familiar yet misplaced; he thought +of her long acquaintance with the squalid needs of life, and of her +innocence; of her solicitude for others, and her few years, and her +childish aspect. + +They were come into the High Street, where the prison stood, when a +voice cried, ‘Little mother, little mother!’ Little Dorrit stopping and +looking back, an excited figure of a strange kind bounced against them +(still crying ‘little mother’), fell down, and scattered the contents of +a large basket, filled with potatoes, in the mud. + +‘Oh, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘what a clumsy child you are!’ + +Maggy was not hurt, but picked herself up immediately, and then began +to pick up the potatoes, in which both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam +helped. Maggy picked up very few potatoes and a great quantity of mud; +but they were all recovered, and deposited in the basket. Maggy then +smeared her muddy face with her shawl, and presenting it to Mr Clennam +as a type of purity, enabled him to see what she was like. + +She was about eight-and-twenty, with large bones, large features, large +feet and hands, large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were limpid and +almost colourless; they seemed to be very little affected by light, +and to stand unnaturally still. There was also that attentive listening +expression in her face, which is seen in the faces of the blind; but she +was not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. Her face was not +exceedingly ugly, though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile; +a good-humoured smile, and pleasant in itself, but rendered pitiable +by being constantly there. A great white cap, with a quantity of +opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy’s +baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to +retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a +gipsy’s baby. A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported +what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general +resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her +shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion. + +Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one +saying, ‘May I ask who this is?’ Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy, +still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words +(they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had +rolled). + +‘This is Maggy, sir.’ + +‘Maggy, sir,’ echoed the personage presented. ‘Little mother!’ + +‘She is the grand-daughter--’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘Grand-daughter,’ echoed Maggy. + +‘Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are +you?’ + +‘Ten, mother,’ said Maggy. + +‘You can’t think how good she is, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, with +infinite tenderness. + +‘Good _she_ is,’ echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most +expressive way from herself to her little mother. + +‘Or how clever,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘She goes on errands as well as +any one.’ Maggy laughed. ‘And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England.’ +Maggy laughed. ‘She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!’ said +Little Dorrit, in a lower and triumphant tone. ‘Really does!’ + +‘What is her history?’ asked Clennam. + +‘Think of that, Maggy?’ said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands +and clapping them together. ‘A gentleman from thousands of miles away, +wanting to know your history!’ + +‘_My_ history?’ cried Maggy. ‘Little mother.’ + +‘She means me,’ said Little Dorrit, rather confused; ‘she is very much +attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should +have been; was she, Maggy?’ + +Maggy shook her head, made a drinking vessel of her clenched left hand, +drank out of it, and said, ‘Gin.’ Then beat an imaginary child, and said, +‘Broom-handles and pokers.’ + +‘When Maggy was ten years old,’ said Little Dorrit, watching her face +while she spoke, ‘she had a bad fever, sir, and she has never grown any +older ever since.’ + +‘Ten years old,’ said Maggy, nodding her head. ‘But what a nice +hospital! So comfortable, wasn’t it? Oh so nice it was. Such a Ev’nly +place!’ + +‘She had never been at peace before, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, turning +towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, ‘and she always runs off +upon that.’ + +‘Such beds there is there!’ cried Maggy. ‘Such lemonades! Such oranges! +Such d’licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, AIN’T it a delightful +place to go and stop at!’ + +‘So Maggy stopped there as long as she could,’ said Little Dorrit, +in her former tone of telling a child’s story; the tone designed for +Maggy’s ear, ‘and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came +out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however +long she lived--’ + +‘However long she lived,’ echoed Maggy. + +‘--And because she was very weak; indeed was so weak that when she began +to laugh she couldn’t stop herself--which was a great pity--’ + +(Maggy mighty grave of a sudden.) + +‘--Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some years +was very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggy began +to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive and very +industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as often as +she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does support +herself. And that,’ said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great hands +together again, ‘is Maggy’s history, as Maggy knows!’ + +Ah! But Arthur would have known what was wanting to its completeness, +though he had never heard of the words Little mother; though he had +never seen the fondling of the small spare hand; though he had had no +sight for the tears now standing in the colourless eyes; though he had +had no hearing for the sob that checked the clumsy laugh. The dirty +gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and the basket of +muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, never seemed the +common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by these lights. +Never, never! + +They were very near the end of their walk, and they now came out of the +gateway to finish it. Nothing would serve Maggy but that they must stop +at a grocer’s window, short of their destination, for her to show her +learning. She could read after a sort; and picked out the fat figures in +the tickets of prices, for the most part correctly. She also stumbled, +with a large balance of success against her failures, through various +philanthropic recommendations to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black, +Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, challenging competition at the head +of Flowery Teas; and various cautions to the public against spurious +establishments and adulterated articles. When he saw how pleasure +brought a rosy tint into Little Dorrit’s face when Maggy made a hit, +he felt that he could have stood there making a library of the grocer’s +window until the rain and wind were tired. + +The court-yard received them at last, and there he said goodbye to +Little Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less than +ever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea lodge passage, the little +mother attended by her big child. + +The cage door opened, and when the small bird, reared in captivity, had +tamely fluttered in, he saw it shut again; and then he came away. + + + + +CHAPTER 10. Containing the whole Science of Government + + +The Circumlocution Office was (as everybody knows without being told) +the most important Department under Government. No public business of +any kind could possibly be done at any time without the acquiescence of +the Circumlocution Office. Its finger was in the largest public pie, +and in the smallest public tart. It was equally impossible to do the +plainest right and to undo the plainest wrong without the express +authority of the Circumlocution Office. If another Gunpowder Plot had +been discovered half an hour before the lighting of the match, nobody +would have been justified in saving the parliament until there had +been half a score of boards, half a bushel of minutes, several sacks +of official memoranda, and a family-vault full of ungrammatical +correspondence, on the part of the Circumlocution Office. + +This glorious establishment had been early in the field, when the one +sublime principle involving the difficult art of governing a country, +was first distinctly revealed to statesmen. It had been foremost to +study that bright revelation and to carry its shining influence through +the whole of the official proceedings. Whatever was required to be done, +the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments +in the art of perceiving--HOW NOT TO DO IT. + +Through this delicate perception, through the tact with which it +invariably seized it, and through the genius with which it always acted +on it, the Circumlocution Office had risen to overtop all the public +departments; and the public condition had risen to be--what it was. + +It is true that How not to do it was the great study and object of +all public departments and professional politicians all round the +Circumlocution Office. It is true that every new premier and every +new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as +necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their +utmost faculties to discovering How not to do it. It is true that from +the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had +been raving on hustings because it hadn’t been done, and who had been +asking the friends of the honourable gentleman in the opposite interest +on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn’t been done, and who had +been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself +that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It +is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session +through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to +do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session +virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable +stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective +chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal +speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and +gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering +with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found +out; and with the blessing of Providence upon the harvest (natural, not +political), I now dismiss you. All this is true, but the Circumlocution +Office went beyond it. + +Because the Circumlocution Office went on mechanically, every day, +keeping this wonderful, all-sufficient wheel of statesmanship, How not +to do it, in motion. Because the Circumlocution Office was down upon any +ill-advised public servant who was going to do it, or who appeared to be +by any surprising accident in remote danger of doing it, with a minute, +and a memorandum, and a letter of instructions that extinguished him. It +was this spirit of national efficiency in the Circumlocution Office +that had gradually led to its having something to do with everything. +Mechanicians, natural philosophers, soldiers, sailors, petitioners, +memorialists, people with grievances, people who wanted to prevent +grievances, people who wanted to redress grievances, jobbing people, +jobbed people, people who couldn’t get rewarded for merit, and people +who couldn’t get punished for demerit, were all indiscriminately tucked +up under the foolscap paper of the Circumlocution Office. + +Numbers of people were lost in the Circumlocution Office. Unfortunates +with wrongs, or with projects for the general welfare (and they had +better have had wrongs at first, than have taken that bitter English +recipe for certainly getting them), who in slow lapse of time and agony +had passed safely through other public departments; who, according to +rule, had been bullied in this, over-reached by that, and evaded by +the other; got referred at last to the Circumlocution Office, and +never reappeared in the light of day. Boards sat upon them, secretaries +minuted upon them, commissioners gabbled about them, clerks registered, +entered, checked, and ticked them off, and they melted away. In short, +all the business of the country went through the Circumlocution Office, +except the business that never came out of it; and _its_ name was Legion. + +Sometimes, angry spirits attacked the Circumlocution Office. Sometimes, +parliamentary questions were asked about it, and even parliamentary +motions made or threatened about it by demagogues so low and ignorant as +to hold that the real recipe of government was, How to do it. Then would +the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, in whose department it +was to defend the Circumlocution Office, put an orange in his pocket, +and make a regular field-day of the occasion. Then would he come down to +that house with a slap upon the table, and meet the honourable gentleman +foot to foot. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman +that the Circumlocution Office not only was blameless in this matter, +but was commendable in this matter, was extollable to the skies in this +matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that, +although the Circumlocution Office was invariably right and wholly +right, it never was so right as in this matter. Then would he be there +to tell that honourable gentleman that it would have been more to his +honour, more to his credit, more to his good taste, more to his good +sense, more to half the dictionary of commonplaces, if he had left the +Circumlocution Office alone, and never approached this matter. Then +would he keep one eye upon a coach or crammer from the Circumlocution +Office sitting below the bar, and smash the honourable gentleman with +the Circumlocution Office account of this matter. And although one +of two things always happened; namely, either that the Circumlocution +Office had nothing to say and said it, or that it had something to say +of which the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, blundered one +half and forgot the other; the Circumlocution Office was always voted +immaculate by an accommodating majority. + +Such a nursery of statesmen had the Department become in virtue of a +long career of this nature, that several solemn lords had attained the +reputation of being quite unearthly prodigies of business, solely from +having practised, How not to do it, as the head of the Circumlocution +Office. As to the minor priests and acolytes of that temple, the result +of all this was that they stood divided into two classes, and, down to +the junior messenger, either believed in the Circumlocution Office as +a heaven-born institution that had an absolute right to do whatever it +liked; or took refuge in total infidelity, and considered it a flagrant +nuisance. + +The Barnacle family had for some time helped to administer the +Circumlocution Office. The Tite Barnacle Branch, indeed, considered +themselves in a general way as having vested rights in that direction, +and took it ill if any other family had much to say to it. The Barnacles +were a very high family, and a very large family. They were dispersed +all over the public offices, and held all sorts of public places. Either +the nation was under a load of obligation to the Barnacles, or the +Barnacles were under a load of obligation to the nation. It was not +quite unanimously settled which; the Barnacles having their opinion, the +nation theirs. + +The Mr Tite Barnacle who at the period now in question usually coached +or crammed the statesman at the head of the Circumlocution Office, when +that noble or right honourable individual sat a little uneasily in his +saddle by reason of some vagabond making a tilt at him in a newspaper, +was more flush of blood than money. As a Barnacle he had his place, +which was a snug thing enough; and as a Barnacle he had of course put +in his son Barnacle Junior in the office. But he had intermarried with +a branch of the Stiltstalkings, who were also better endowed in a +sanguineous point of view than with real or personal property, and of +this marriage there had been issue, Barnacle junior and three young +ladies. What with the patrician requirements of Barnacle junior, the +three young ladies, Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, and himself, +Mr Tite Barnacle found the intervals between quarter day and quarter day +rather longer than he could have desired; a circumstance which he always +attributed to the country’s parsimony. + +For Mr Tite Barnacle, Mr Arthur Clennam made his fifth inquiry one day +at the Circumlocution Office; having on previous occasions awaited that +gentleman successively in a hall, a glass case, a waiting room, and a +fire-proof passage where the Department seemed to keep its wind. On this +occasion Mr Barnacle was not engaged, as he had been before, with the +noble prodigy at the head of the Department; but was absent. Barnacle +Junior, however, was announced as a lesser star, yet visible above the +office horizon. + +With Barnacle junior, he signified his desire to confer; and found that +young gentleman singeing the calves of his legs at the parental fire, +and supporting his spine against the mantel-shelf. It was a comfortable +room, handsomely furnished in the higher official manner; and presenting +stately suggestions of the absent Barnacle, in the thick carpet, the +leather-covered desk to sit at, the leather-covered desk to stand at, +the formidable easy-chair and hearth-rug, the interposed screen, the +torn-up papers, the dispatch-boxes with little labels sticking out of +them, like medicine bottles or dead game, the pervading smell of leather +and mahogany, and a general bamboozling air of How not to do it. + +The present Barnacle, holding Mr Clennam’s card in his hand, had a +youthful aspect, and the fluffiest little whisker, perhaps, that ever +was seen. Such a downy tip was on his callow chin, that he seemed half +fledged like a young bird; and a compassionate observer might have urged +that, if he had not singed the calves of his legs, he would have died +of cold. He had a superior eye-glass dangling round his neck, but +unfortunately had such flat orbits to his eyes and such limp little +eyelids that it wouldn’t stick in when he put it up, but kept tumbling +out against his waistcoat buttons with a click that discomposed him very +much. + +‘Oh, I say. Look here! My father’s not in the way, and won’t be in the +way to-day,’ said Barnacle Junior. ‘Is this anything that I can do?’ + +(Click! Eye-glass down. Barnacle Junior quite frightened and feeling all +round himself, but not able to find it.) + +‘You are very good,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘I wish however to see Mr +Barnacle.’ + +‘But I say. Look here! You haven’t got any appointment, you know,’ said +Barnacle Junior. + +(By this time he had found the eye-glass, and put it up again.) + +‘No,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘That is what I wish to have.’ + +‘But I say. Look here! Is this public business?’ asked Barnacle junior. + +(Click! Eye-glass down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of search +after it that Mr Clennam felt it useless to reply at present.) + +‘Is it,’ said Barnacle junior, taking heed of his visitor’s brown face, +‘anything about--Tonnage--or that sort of thing?’ + +(Pausing for a reply, he opened his right eye with his hand, and stuck +his glass in it, in that inflammatory manner that his eye began watering +dreadfully.) + +‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it is nothing about tonnage.’ + +‘Then look here. Is it private business?’ + +‘I really am not sure. It relates to a Mr Dorrit.’ + +‘Look here, I tell you what! You had better call at our house, if you +are going that way. Twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. My +father’s got a slight touch of the gout, and is kept at home by it.’ + +(The misguided young Barnacle evidently going blind on his eye-glass +side, but ashamed to make any further alteration in his painful +arrangements.) + +‘Thank you. I will call there now. Good morning.’ Young Barnacle seemed +discomfited at this, as not having at all expected him to go. + +‘You are quite sure,’ said Barnacle junior, calling after him when he +got to the door, unwilling wholly to relinquish the bright business idea +he had conceived; ‘that it’s nothing about Tonnage?’ + +‘Quite sure.’ + +With such assurance, and rather wondering what might have taken place +if it _had_ been anything about tonnage, Mr Clennam withdrew to pursue his +inquiries. + +Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, was not absolutely Grosvenor Square +itself, but it was very near it. It was a hideous little street of dead +wall, stables, and dunghills, with lofts over coach-houses inhabited by +coachmen’s families, who had a passion for drying clothes and decorating +their window-sills with miniature turnpike-gates. The principal +chimney-sweep of that fashionable quarter lived at the blind end of Mews +Street; and the same corner contained an establishment much frequented +about early morning and twilight for the purchase of wine-bottles and +kitchen-stuff. Punch’s shows used to lean against the dead wall in Mews +Street, while their proprietors were dining elsewhere; and the dogs of +the neighbourhood made appointments to meet in the same locality. Yet +there were two or three small airless houses at the entrance end of Mews +Street, which went at enormous rents on account of their being abject +hangers-on to a fashionable situation; and whenever one of these fearful +little coops was to be let (which seldom happened, for they were in +great request), the house agent advertised it as a gentlemanly residence +in the most aristocratic part of town, inhabited solely by the elite of +the beau monde. + +If a gentlemanly residence coming strictly within this narrow margin had +not been essential to the blood of the Barnacles, this particular branch +would have had a pretty wide selection among, let us say, ten thousand +houses, offering fifty times the accommodation for a third of the money. +As it was, Mr Barnacle, finding his gentlemanly residence extremely +inconvenient and extremely dear, always laid it, as a public servant, +at the door of the country, and adduced it as another instance of the +country’s parsimony. + +Arthur Clennam came to a squeezed house, with a ramshackle bowed +front, little dingy windows, and a little dark area like a damp +waistcoat-pocket, which he found to be number twenty-four, Mews Street, +Grosvenor Square. To the sense of smell the house was like a sort of +bottle filled with a strong distillation of Mews; and when the footman +opened the door, he seemed to take the stopper out. + +The footman was to the Grosvenor Square footmen, what the house was to +the Grosvenor Square houses. Admirable in his way, his way was a back +and a bye way. His gorgeousness was not unmixed with dirt; and both in +complexion and consistency he had suffered from the closeness of his +pantry. A sallow flabbiness was upon him when he took the stopper out, +and presented the bottle to Mr Clennam’s nose. + +‘Be so good as to give that card to Mr Tite Barnacle, and to say that I +have just now seen the younger Mr Barnacle, who recommended me to call +here.’ + +The footman (who had as many large buttons with the Barnacle crest upon +them on the flaps of his pockets, as if he were the family strong box, +and carried the plate and jewels about with him buttoned up) pondered +over the card a little; then said, ‘Walk in.’ It required some judgment +to do it without butting the inner hall-door open, and in the consequent +mental confusion and physical darkness slipping down the kitchen stairs. +The visitor, however, brought himself up safely on the door-mat. + +Still the footman said ‘Walk in,’ so the visitor followed him. At the +inner hall-door, another bottle seemed to be presented and another +stopper taken out. This second vial appeared to be filled with +concentrated provisions and extract of Sink from the pantry. After a +skirmish in the narrow passage, occasioned by the footman’s opening the +door of the dismal dining-room with confidence, finding some one there +with consternation, and backing on the visitor with disorder, the +visitor was shut up, pending his announcement, in a close back parlour. +There he had an opportunity of refreshing himself with both the +bottles at once, looking out at a low blinding wall three feet off, +and speculating on the number of Barnacle families within the bills of +mortality who lived in such hutches of their own free flunkey choice. + +Mr Barnacle would see him. Would he walk up-stairs? He would, and +he did; and in the drawing-room, with his leg on a rest, he found Mr +Barnacle himself, the express image and presentment of How not to do it. + +Mr Barnacle dated from a better time, when the country was not so +parsimonious and the Circumlocution Office was not so badgered. He wound +and wound folds of white cravat round his neck, as he wound and wound +folds of tape and paper round the neck of the country. His wristbands +and collar were oppressive; his voice and manner were oppressive. He +had a large watch-chain and bunch of seals, a coat buttoned up to +inconvenience, a waistcoat buttoned up to inconvenience, an unwrinkled +pair of trousers, a stiff pair of boots. He was altogether splendid, +massive, overpowering, and impracticable. He seemed to have been sitting +for his portrait to Sir Thomas Lawrence all the days of his life. + +‘Mr Clennam?’ said Mr Barnacle. ‘Be seated.’ + +Mr Clennam became seated. + +‘You have called on me, I believe,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘at the +Circumlocution--’ giving it the air of a word of about five-and-twenty +syllables--‘Office.’ + +‘I have taken that liberty.’ + +Mr Barnacle solemnly bent his head as who should say, ‘I do not deny +that it is a liberty; proceed to take another liberty, and let me know +your business.’ + +‘Allow me to observe that I have been for some years in China, am quite +a stranger at home, and have no personal motive or interest in the +inquiry I am about to make.’ + +Mr Barnacle tapped his fingers on the table, and, as if he were now +sitting for his portrait to a new and strange artist, appeared to say +to his visitor, ‘If you will be good enough to take me with my present +lofty expression, I shall feel obliged.’ + +‘I have found a debtor in the Marshalsea Prison of the name of Dorrit, +who has been there many years. I wish to investigate his confused +affairs so far as to ascertain whether it may not be possible, after +this lapse of time, to ameliorate his unhappy condition. The name of +Mr Tite Barnacle has been mentioned to me as representing some highly +influential interest among his creditors. Am I correctly informed?’ + +It being one of the principles of the Circumlocution Office never, on +any account whatever, to give a straightforward answer, Mr Barnacle +said, ‘Possibly.’ + +‘On behalf of the Crown, may I ask, or as private individual?’ + +‘The Circumlocution Department, sir,’ Mr Barnacle replied, ‘may have +possibly recommended--possibly--I cannot say--that some public claim +against the insolvent estate of a firm or copartnership to which this +person may have belonged, should be enforced. The question may have +been, in the course of official business, referred to the Circumlocution +Department for its consideration. The Department may have either +originated, or confirmed, a Minute making that recommendation.’ + +‘I assume this to be the case, then.’ + +‘The Circumlocution Department,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘is not responsible +for any gentleman’s assumptions.’ + +‘May I inquire how I can obtain official information as to the real +state of the case?’ + +‘It is competent,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘to any member of the--Public,’ +mentioning that obscure body with reluctance, as his natural enemy, +‘to memorialise the Circumlocution Department. Such formalities as are +required to be observed in so doing, may be known on application to the +proper branch of that Department.’ + +‘Which is the proper branch?’ + +‘I must refer you,’ returned Mr Barnacle, ringing the bell, ‘to the +Department itself for a formal answer to that inquiry.’ + +‘Excuse my mentioning--’ + +‘The Department is accessible to the--Public,’ Mr Barnacle was always +checked a little by that word of impertinent signification, ‘if +the--Public approaches it according to the official forms; if +the--Public does not approach it according to the official forms, +the--Public has itself to blame.’ + +Mr Barnacle made him a severe bow, as a wounded man of family, a wounded +man of place, and a wounded man of a gentlemanly residence, all rolled +into one; and he made Mr Barnacle a bow, and was shut out into Mews +Street by the flabby footman. + +Having got to this pass, he resolved as an exercise in perseverance, +to betake himself again to the Circumlocution Office, and try what +satisfaction he could get there. So he went back to the Circumlocution +Office, and once more sent up his card to Barnacle junior by a messenger +who took it very ill indeed that he should come back again, and who was +eating mashed potatoes and gravy behind a partition by the hall fire. + +He was readmitted to the presence of Barnacle junior, and found that +young gentleman singeing his knees now, and gaping his weary way on +to four o’clock. + +‘I say. Look here. You stick to us in a devil of a manner,’ Said +Barnacle junior, looking over his shoulder. + +‘I want to know--’ + +‘Look here. Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you +want to know, you know,’ remonstrated Barnacle junior, turning about and +putting up the eye-glass. + +‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam, who had made up his mind to +persistence in one short form of words, ‘the precise nature of the claim +of the Crown against a prisoner for debt, named Dorrit.’ + +‘I say. Look here. You really are going it at a great pace, you know. +Egad, you haven’t got an appointment,’ said Barnacle junior, as if the +thing were growing serious. + +‘I want to know,’ said Arthur, and repeated his case. + +Barnacle junior stared at him until his eye-glass fell out, and then +put it in again and stared at him until it fell out again. ‘You have +no right to come this sort of move,’ he then observed with the greatest +weakness. ‘Look here. What do you mean? You told me you didn’t know +whether it was public business or not.’ + +‘I have now ascertained that it is public business,’ returned the +suitor, ‘and I want to know’--and again repeated his monotonous inquiry. + +Its effect upon young Barnacle was to make him repeat in a defenceless +way, ‘Look here! Upon my SOUL you mustn’t come into the place saying you +want to know, you know!’ The effect of that upon Arthur Clennam was +to make him repeat his inquiry in exactly the same words and tone +as before. The effect of that upon young Barnacle was to make him a +wonderful spectacle of failure and helplessness. + +‘Well, I tell you what. Look here. You had better try the Secretarial +Department,’ he said at last, sidling to the bell and ringing it. +‘Jenkinson,’ to the mashed potatoes messenger, ‘Mr Wobbler!’ + +Arthur Clennam, who now felt that he had devoted himself to the storming +of the Circumlocution Office, and must go through with it, accompanied +the messenger to another floor of the building, where that functionary +pointed out Mr Wobbler’s room. He entered that apartment, and found two +gentlemen sitting face to face at a large and easy desk, one of whom was +polishing a gun-barrel on his pocket-handkerchief, while the other was +spreading marmalade on bread with a paper-knife. + +‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor. + +Both gentlemen glanced at him, and seemed surprised at his assurance. + +‘So he went,’ said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an +extremely deliberate speaker, ‘down to his cousin’s place, and took the +Dog with him by rail. Inestimable Dog. Flew at the porter fellow when he +was put into the dog-box, and flew at the guard when he was taken out. +He got half-a-dozen fellows into a Barn, and a good supply of Rats, and +timed the Dog. Finding the Dog able to do it immensely, made the match, +and heavily backed the Dog. When the match came off, some devil of +a fellow was bought over, Sir, Dog was made drunk, Dog’s master was +cleaned out.’ + +‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor. + +The gentleman who was spreading the marmalade returned, without looking +up from that occupation, ‘What did he call the Dog?’ + +‘Called him Lovely,’ said the other gentleman. ‘Said the Dog was the +perfect picture of the old aunt from whom he had expectations. Found him +particularly like her when hocussed.’ + +‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor. + +Both gentlemen laughed for some time. The gentleman with the gun-barrel, +considering it, on inspection, in a satisfactory state, referred it to +the other; receiving confirmation of his views, he fitted it into its +place in the case before him, and took out the stock and polished that, +softly whistling. + +‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor. + +‘What’s the matter?’ then said Mr Wobbler, with his mouth full. + +‘I want to know--’ and Arthur Clennam again mechanically set forth what +he wanted to know. + +‘Can’t inform you,’ observed Mr Wobbler, apparently to his lunch. ‘Never +heard of it. Nothing at all to do with it. Better try Mr Clive, second +door on the left in the next passage.’ + +‘Perhaps he will give me the same answer.’ + +‘Very likely. Don’t know anything about it,’ said Mr Wobbler. + +The suitor turned away and had left the room, when the gentleman with +the gun called out ‘Mister! Hallo!’ + +He looked in again. + +‘Shut the door after you. You’re letting in a devil of a draught here!’ + +A few steps brought him to the second door on the left in the next +passage. In that room he found three gentlemen; number one doing nothing +particular, number two doing nothing particular, number three doing +nothing particular. They seemed, however, to be more directly concerned +than the others had been in the effective execution of the great +principle of the office, as there was an awful inner apartment with a +double door, in which the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be assembled +in council, and out of which there was an imposing coming of papers, +and into which there was an imposing going of papers, almost constantly; +wherein another gentleman, number four, was the active instrument. + +‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam,--and again stated his case in the +same barrel-organ way. As number one referred him to number two, and +as number two referred him to number three, he had occasion to state +it three times before they all referred him to number four, to whom he +stated it again. + +Number four was a vivacious, well-looking, well-dressed, agreeable +young fellow--he was a Barnacle, but on the more sprightly side of +the family--and he said in an easy way, ‘Oh! you had better not bother +yourself about it, I think.’ + +‘Not bother myself about it?’ + +‘No! I recommend you not to bother yourself about it.’ + +This was such a new point of view that Arthur Clennam found himself at a +loss how to receive it. + +‘You can if you like. I can give you plenty of forms to fill up. Lots of +‘em here. You can have a dozen if you like. But you’ll never go on with +it,’ said number four. + +‘Would it be such hopeless work? Excuse me; I am a stranger in England.’ + +‘_I_ don’t say it would be hopeless,’ returned number four, with a frank +smile. ‘I don’t express an opinion about that; I only express an opinion +about you. _I_ don’t think you’d go on with it. However, of course, you +can do as you like. I suppose there was a failure in the performance of +a contract, or something of that kind, was there?’ + +‘I really don’t know.’ + +‘Well! That you can find out. Then you’ll find out what Department the +contract was in, and then you’ll find out all about it there.’ + +‘I beg your pardon. How shall I find out?’ + +‘Why, you’ll--you’ll ask till they tell you. Then you’ll memorialise +that Department (according to regular forms which you’ll find out) for +leave to memorialise this Department. If you get it (which you may after +a time), that memorial must be entered in that Department, sent to +be registered in this Department, sent back to be signed by that +Department, sent back to be countersigned by this Department, and then +it will begin to be regularly before that Department. You’ll find out +when the business passes through each of these stages by asking at both +Departments till they tell you.’ + +‘But surely this is not the way to do the business,’ Arthur Clennam +could not help saying. + +This airy young Barnacle was quite entertained by his simplicity in +supposing for a moment that it was. This light in hand young Barnacle +knew perfectly that it was not. This touch and go young Barnacle had +‘got up’ the Department in a private secretaryship, that he might +be ready for any little bit of fat that came to hand; and he fully +understood the Department to be a politico-diplomatic hocus pocus piece +of machinery for the assistance of the nobs in keeping off the +snobs. This dashing young Barnacle, in a word, was likely to become a +statesman, and to make a figure. + +‘When the business is regularly before that Department, whatever it is,’ +pursued this bright young Barnacle, ‘then you can watch it from time +to time through that Department. When it comes regularly before this +Department, then you must watch it from time to time through this +Department. We shall have to refer it right and left; and when we refer +it anywhere, then you’ll have to look it up. When it comes back to us +at any time, then you had better look _us_ up. When it sticks anywhere, +you’ll have to try to give it a jog. When you write to another +Department about it, and then to this Department about it, and don’t +hear anything satisfactory about it, why then you had better--keep on +writing.’ + +Arthur Clennam looked very doubtful indeed. ‘But I am obliged to you at +any rate,’ said he, ‘for your politeness.’ + +‘Not at all,’ replied this engaging young Barnacle. ‘Try the thing, and +see how you like it. It will be in your power to give it up at any time, +if you don’t like it. You had better take a lot of forms away with you. +Give him a lot of forms!’ With which instruction to number two, this +sparkling young Barnacle took a fresh handful of papers from numbers one +and three, and carried them into the sanctuary to offer to the presiding +Idol of the Circumlocution Office. + +Arthur Clennam put his forms in his pocket gloomily enough, and went +his way down the long stone passage and the long stone staircase. He had +come to the swing doors leading into the street, and was waiting, not +over patiently, for two people who were between him and them to pass out +and let him follow, when the voice of one of them struck familiarly on +his ear. He looked at the speaker and recognised Mr Meagles. Mr Meagles +was very red in the face--redder than travel could have made him--and +collaring a short man who was with him, said, ‘come out, you rascal, +come Out!’ + +It was such an unexpected hearing, and it was also such an unexpected +sight to see Mr Meagles burst the swing doors open, and emerge into the +street with the short man, who was of an unoffending appearance, that +Clennam stood still for the moment exchanging looks of surprise with the +porter. He followed, however, quickly; and saw Mr Meagles going down +the street with his enemy at his side. He soon came up with his old +travelling companion, and touched him on the back. The choleric face +which Mr Meagles turned upon him smoothed when he saw who it was, and he +put out his friendly hand. + +‘How are you?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘How d’ye _do?_ I have only just come over +from abroad. I am glad to see you.’ + +‘And I am rejoiced to see you.’ + +‘Thank’ee. Thank’ee!’ + +‘Mrs Meagles and your daughter--?’ + +‘Are as well as possible,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I only wish you had come +upon me in a more prepossessing condition as to coolness.’ + +Though it was anything but a hot day, Mr Meagles was in a heated state +that attracted the attention of the passersby; more particularly as +he leaned his back against a railing, took off his hat and cravat, and +heartily rubbed his steaming head and face, and his reddened ears and +neck, without the least regard for public opinion. + +‘Whew!’ said Mr Meagles, dressing again. ‘That’s comfortable. Now I am +cooler.’ + +‘You have been ruffled, Mr Meagles. What is the matter?’ + +‘Wait a bit, and I’ll tell you. Have you leisure for a turn in the +Park?’ + +‘As much as you please.’ + +‘Come along then. Ah! you may well look at him.’ He happened to have +turned his eyes towards the offender whom Mr Meagles had so angrily +collared. ‘He’s something to look at, that fellow is.’ + +He was not much to look at, either in point of size or in point of +dress; being merely a short, square, practical looking man, whose hair +had turned grey, and in whose face and forehead there were deep lines of +cogitation, which looked as though they were carved in hard wood. He +was dressed in decent black, a little rusty, and had the appearance of +a sagacious master in some handicraft. He had a spectacle-case in his +hand, which he turned over and over while he was thus in question, +with a certain free use of the thumb that is never seen but in a hand +accustomed to tools. + +‘You keep with us,’ said Mr Meagles, in a threatening kind of Way, ‘and +I’ll introduce you presently. Now then!’ + +Clennam wondered within himself, as they took the nearest way to the +Park, what this unknown (who complied in the gentlest manner) could have +been doing. His appearance did not at all justify the suspicion that he +had been detected in designs on Mr Meagles’s pocket-handkerchief; nor +had he any appearance of being quarrelsome or violent. He was a quiet, +plain, steady man; made no attempt to escape; and seemed a little +depressed, but neither ashamed nor repentant. If he were a criminal +offender, he must surely be an incorrigible hypocrite; and if he were no +offender, why should Mr Meagles have collared him in the Circumlocution +Office? He perceived that the man was not a difficulty in his own +mind alone, but in Mr Meagles’s too; for such conversation as they had +together on the short way to the Park was by no means well sustained, +and Mr Meagles’s eye always wandered back to the man, even when he spoke +of something very different. + +At length they being among the trees, Mr Meagles stopped short, and +said: + +‘Mr Clennam, will you do me the favour to look at this man? His name +is Doyce, Daniel Doyce. You wouldn’t suppose this man to be a notorious +rascal; would you?’ + +‘I certainly should not.’ It was really a disconcerting question, with +the man there. + +‘No. You would not. I know you would not. You wouldn’t suppose him to be +a public offender; would you?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘No. But he is. He is a public offender. What has he been guilty of? +Murder, manslaughter, arson, forgery, swindling, house-breaking, highway +robbery, larceny, conspiracy, fraud? Which should you say, now?’ + +‘I should say,’ returned Arthur Clennam, observing a faint smile in +Daniel Doyce’s face, ‘not one of them.’ + +‘You are right,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘But he has been ingenious, and he has +been trying to turn his ingenuity to his country’s service. That makes +him a public offender directly, sir.’ + +Arthur looked at the man himself, who only shook his head. + +‘This Doyce,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is a smith and engineer. He is not in a +large way, but he is well known as a very ingenious man. A dozen years +ago, he perfects an invention (involving a very curious secret process) +of great importance to his country and his fellow-creatures. I won’t say +how much money it cost him, or how many years of his life he had been +about it, but he brought it to perfection a dozen years ago. Wasn’t it a +dozen?’ said Mr Meagles, addressing Doyce. ‘He is the most exasperating +man in the world; he never complains!’ + +‘Yes. Rather better than twelve years ago.’ + +‘Rather better?’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you mean rather worse. Well, Mr +Clennam, he addresses himself to the Government. The moment he addresses +himself to the Government, he becomes a public offender! Sir,’ said Mr +Meagles, in danger of making himself excessively hot again, ‘he ceases +to be an innocent citizen, and becomes a culprit. He is treated from +that instant as a man who has done some infernal action. He is a man to +be shirked, put off, brow-beaten, sneered at, handed over by this +highly-connected young or old gentleman, to that highly-connected young +or old gentleman, and dodged back again; he is a man with no rights in +his own time, or his own property; a mere outlaw, whom it is justifiable +to get rid of anyhow; a man to be worn out by all possible means.’ + +It was not so difficult to believe, after the morning’s experience, as +Mr Meagles supposed. + +‘Don’t stand there, Doyce, turning your spectacle-case over and over,’ +cried Mr Meagles, ‘but tell Mr Clennam what you confessed to me.’ + +‘I undoubtedly was made to feel,’ said the inventor, ‘as if I had +committed an offence. In dancing attendance at the various offices, I +was always treated, more or less, as if it was a very bad offence. I +have frequently found it necessary to reflect, for my own self-support, +that I really had not done anything to bring myself into the Newgate +Calendar, but only wanted to effect a great saving and a great +improvement.’ + +‘There!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Judge whether I exaggerate. Now you’ll be +able to believe me when I tell you the rest of the case.’ + +With this prelude, Mr Meagles went through the narrative; the +established narrative, which has become tiresome; the matter-of-course +narrative which we all know by heart. How, after interminable attendance +and correspondence, after infinite impertinences, ignorances, and +insults, my lords made a Minute, number three thousand four hundred +and seventy-two, allowing the culprit to make certain trials of his +invention at his own expense. How the trials were made in the presence +of a board of six, of whom two ancient members were too blind to see it, +two other ancient members were too deaf to hear it, one other ancient +member was too lame to get near it, and the final ancient member was too +pig-headed to look at it. How there were more years; more impertinences, +ignorances, and insults. How my lords then made a Minute, number five +thousand one hundred and three, whereby they resigned the business to +the Circumlocution Office. How the Circumlocution Office, in course of +time, took up the business as if it were a bran new thing of yesterday, +which had never been heard of before; muddled the business, addled the +business, tossed the business in a wet blanket. How the impertinences, +ignorances, and insults went through the multiplication table. How there +was a reference of the invention to three Barnacles and a Stiltstalking, +who knew nothing about it; into whose heads nothing could be hammered +about it; who got bored about it, and reported physical impossibilities +about it. How the Circumlocution Office, in a Minute, number eight +thousand seven hundred and forty, ‘saw no reason to reverse the decision +at which my lords had arrived.’ How the Circumlocution Office, being +reminded that my lords had arrived at no decision, shelved the business. +How there had been a final interview with the head of the Circumlocution +Office that very morning, and how the Brazen Head had spoken, and had +been, upon the whole, and under all the circumstances, and looking at it +from the various points of view, of opinion that one of two courses was +to be pursued in respect of the business: that was to say, either to +leave it alone for evermore, or to begin it all over again. + +‘Upon which,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘as a practical man, I then and there, in +that presence, took Doyce by the collar, and told him it was plain to +me that he was an infamous rascal and treasonable disturber of the +government peace, and took him away. I brought him out of the office +door by the collar, that the very porter might know I was a practical +man who appreciated the official estimate of such characters; and here +we are!’ + +If that airy young Barnacle had been there, he would have frankly told +them perhaps that the Circumlocution Office had achieved its function. +That what the Barnacles had to do, was to stick on to the national ship +as long as they could. That to trim the ship, lighten the ship, clean +the ship, would be to knock them off; that they could but be knocked off +once; and that if the ship went down with them yet sticking to it, that +was the ship’s look out, and not theirs. + +‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘now you know all about Doyce. Except, which I +own does not improve my state of mind, that even now you don’t hear him +complain.’ + +‘You must have great patience,’ said Arthur Clennam, looking at him with +some wonder, ‘great forbearance.’ + +‘No,’ he returned, ‘I don’t know that I have more than another man.’ + +‘By the Lord, you have more than I have, though!’ cried Mr Meagles. + +Doyce smiled, as he said to Clennam, ‘You see, my experience of these +things does not begin with myself. It has been in my way to know a +little about them from time to time. Mine is not a particular case. I am +not worse used than a hundred others who have put themselves in the same +position--than all the others, I was going to say.’ + +‘I don’t know that I should find that a consolation, if it were my case; +but I am very glad that you do.’ + +‘Understand me! I don’t say,’ he replied in his steady, planning +way, and looking into the distance before him as if his grey eye were +measuring it, ‘that it’s recompense for a man’s toil and hope; but it’s +a certain sort of relief to know that I might have counted on this.’ + +He spoke in that quiet deliberate manner, and in that undertone, which +is often observable in mechanics who consider and adjust with great +nicety. It belonged to him like his suppleness of thumb, or his peculiar +way of tilting up his hat at the back every now and then, as if he were +contemplating some half-finished work of his hand and thinking about it. + +‘Disappointed?’ he went on, as he walked between them under the trees. +‘Yes. No doubt I am disappointed. Hurt? Yes. No doubt I am hurt. That’s +only natural. But what I mean when I say that people who put themselves +in the same position are mostly used in the same way--’ + +‘In England,’ said Mr Meagles. + +‘Oh! of course I mean in England. When they take their inventions into +foreign countries, that’s quite different. And that’s the reason why so +many go there.’ + +Mr Meagles very hot indeed again. + +‘What I mean is, that however this comes to be the regular way of our +government, it is its regular way. Have you ever heard of any projector +or inventor who failed to find it all but inaccessible, and whom it did +not discourage and ill-treat?’ + +‘I cannot say that I ever have.’ + +‘Have you ever known it to be beforehand in the adoption of any useful +thing? Ever known it to set an example of any useful kind?’ + +‘I am a good deal older than my friend here,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and I’ll +answer that. Never.’ + +‘But we all three have known, I expect,’ said the inventor, ‘a pretty +many cases of its fixed determination to be miles upon miles, and years +upon years, behind the rest of us; and of its being found out persisting +in the use of things long superseded, even after the better things were +well known and generally taken up?’ + +They all agreed upon that. + +‘Well then,’ said Doyce, with a sigh, ‘as I know what such a metal will +do at such a temperature, and such a body under such a pressure, so I +may know (if I will only consider), how these great lords and gentlemen +will certainly deal with such a matter as mine. I have no right to be +surprised, with a head upon my shoulders, and memory in it, that I fall +into the ranks with all who came before me. I ought to have let it +alone. I have had warning enough, I am sure.’ + +With that he put up his spectacle-case, and said to Arthur, ‘If I don’t +complain, Mr Clennam, I can feel gratitude; and I assure you that I +feel it towards our mutual friend. Many’s the day, and many’s the way in +which he has backed me.’ + +‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Mr Meagles. + +Arthur could not but glance at Daniel Doyce in the ensuing silence. +Though it was evidently in the grain of his character, and of his +respect for his own case, that he should abstain from idle murmuring, +it was evident that he had grown the older, the sterner, and the poorer, +for his long endeavour. He could not but think what a blessed thing +it would have been for this man, if he had taken a lesson from the +gentlemen who were so kind as to take a nation’s affairs in charge, and +had learnt How not to do it. + +Mr Meagles was hot and despondent for about five minutes, and then began +to cool and clear up. + +‘Come, come!’ said he. ‘We shall not make this the better by being grim. +Where do you think of going, Dan?’ + +‘I shall go back to the factory,’ said Dan. + +‘Why then, we’ll all go back to the factory, or walk in that direction,’ +returned Mr Meagles cheerfully. ‘Mr Clennam won’t be deterred by its +being in Bleeding Heart Yard.’ + +‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Clennam. ‘I want to go there.’ + +‘So much the better,’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Come along!’ + +As they went along, certainly one of the party, and probably more than +one, thought that Bleeding Heart Yard was no inappropriate destination +for a man who had been in official correspondence with my lords and the +Barnacles--and perhaps had a misgiving also that Britannia herself might +come to look for lodgings in Bleeding Heart Yard some ugly day or other, +if she over-did the Circumlocution Office. + + + + +CHAPTER 11. Let Loose + + +A late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The +stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected the +clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there, as if they +were half curious, and half afraid, to see their darkening pictures in +the water. The flat expanse of country about Chalons lay a long heavy +streak, occasionally made a little ragged by a row of poplar trees +against the wrathful sunset. On the banks of the river Saone it was wet, +depressing, solitary; and the night deepened fast. + +One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in +the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old +sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of +some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden +out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his +shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in +pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, +as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed +against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at +him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him. + +He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and +sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he +limped on again, toiling and muttering. + +‘To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these +stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness, +wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!’ + +And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw +about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and looking into +the distance before him, stopped again. + +‘I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder, +eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the +sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!’ + +But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town, +brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier, +and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood +looking about him. + +There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of cooking; +there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling of +dominoes; there was the dyer’s with its strips of red cloth on the +doorposts; there was the silversmith’s with its earrings, and its +offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer’s with its lively +group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad +odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels, and +the faint lamps slung across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its +mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up, +getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a +straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the +dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the +public cistern at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, +in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows +clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced +in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial embellishment +of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play +billiards; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings, whether +one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines, +liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day +door, and limped in. + +He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to +a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the +little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing +as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the +time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among +her cloudy bottles of syrups, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for +glasses, working at her needle. + +Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind +the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As +he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside +him. + +‘One can lodge here to-night, madame?’ + +‘Perfectly!’ said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice. + +‘Good. One can dine--sup--what you please to call it?’ + +‘Ah, perfectly!’ cried the landlady as before. + +‘Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as +you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.’ + +‘It is very bad weather, monsieur,’ said the landlady. + +‘Cursed weather.’ + +‘And a very long road.’ + +‘A cursed road.’ + +His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until +a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied +his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great +loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate, +salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the +wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew +crust, until such time as his repast should be ready. + +There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the stove, +and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one another, +which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a +stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing +at him, and were talking again. + +‘That’s the true reason,’ said one of them, bringing a story he had +been telling, to a close, ‘that’s the true reason why they said that the +devil was let loose.’ The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the +church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the +discussion--especially as the devil was in question. + +The landlady having given her directions for the new guest’s +entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had +resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright +little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and +she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, +but without looking up from her work. + +‘Ah Heaven, then,’ said she. ‘When the boat came up from Lyons, and +brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles, +some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.’ + +‘Madame, you are always right,’ returned the tall Swiss. ‘Doubtless you +were enraged against that man, madame?’ + +‘Ay, yes, then!’ cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work, +opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. ‘Naturally, +yes.’ + +‘He was a bad subject.’ + +‘He was a wicked wretch,’ said the landlady, ‘and well merited what he +had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.’ + +‘Stay, madame! Let us see,’ returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning +his cigar between his lips. ‘It may have been his unfortunate destiny. +He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that +he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out. +Philosophical philanthropy teaches--’ + +The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to +the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players +at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against +philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day. + +‘Hold there, you and your philanthropy,’ cried the smiling landlady, +nodding her head more than ever. ‘Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know +nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and +what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself. +And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women +both, unfortunately) who have no good in them--none. That there are +people whom it is necessary to detest without compromise. That there are +people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there +are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage +beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have +seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little +Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this +man--whatever they call him, I forget his name--is one of them.’ + +The landlady’s lively speech was received with greater favour at +the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable +whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer Great +Britain. + +‘My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,’ said the landlady, +putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger’s soup from her +husband, who appeared with it at a side door, ‘puts anybody at the mercy +of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or +both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn’t worth a sou.’ + +As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a +sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up +under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache. + +‘Well!’ said the previous speaker, ‘let us come back to our subject. +Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted +on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let +loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant; +nothing more.’ + +‘How do they call him?’ said the landlady. ‘Biraud, is it not?’ + +‘Rigaud, madame,’ returned the tall Swiss. + +‘Rigaud! To be sure.’ + +The traveller’s soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish +of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle +of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with +his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and +patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he +assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance. + +The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt +their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees, and not +being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of +the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the +landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking +by the stove, warming his ragged feet. + +‘Pardon me, madame--that Biraud.’ + +‘Rigaud, monsieur.’ + +‘Rigaud. Pardon me again--has contracted your displeasure, how?’ + +The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that +this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking +man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and +strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she +said, who had killed his wife. + +‘Ay, ay? Death of my life, that’s a criminal indeed. But how do you know +it?’ + +‘All the world knows it.’ + +‘Hah! And yet he escaped justice?’ + +‘Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction. +So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people +knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.’ + +‘Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?’ said the guest. +‘Haha!’ + +The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost +confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he +turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was +not ill-looking after all. + +‘Did you mention, madame--or was it mentioned among the gentlemen--what +became of him?’ + +The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational stage at +which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what +she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the +authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own +safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the +worse. + +The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and +as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression that +might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting conclusion +on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did +look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy +moustache. + +‘May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?’ + +Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him +up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed +very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue; but it was a large +chamber with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the +landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between +whiles, ‘Hola, my husband!’ out at the side door. + +My husband answered at length, ‘It is I, my wife!’ and presenting +himself in his cook’s cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow +staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and +bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary reference to the +pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a +rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads +on opposite sides. Here ‘my husband’ put down the candle he carried, and +with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly +gave him the instruction, ‘The bed to the right!’ and left him to his +repose. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had +fully made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow. + +The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for +him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money +out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. ‘One must eat,’ he +muttered to himself, ‘but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other +man to-morrow!’ + +As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm, +the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly +upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man +was covered up warm, and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so +that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing, +still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and +gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and +cravat, became at length a strong provocative to curiosity, and +incentive to get a glimpse of the sleeper’s face. + +The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little +nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller’s bed, until he +stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had +drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put +his smooth white hand (such a treacherous hand it looked, as it went +creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away. + +‘Death of my soul!’ he whispered, falling back, ‘here’s Cavalletto!’ + +The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the +stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and +with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At first they were not +awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly at his +old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and +alarm, sprang out of bed. + +‘Hush! What’s the matter? Keep quiet! It’s I. You know me?’ cried the +other, in a suppressed voice. + +But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations +and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on +his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck, +manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than +renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back +upon the door, and set his shoulders against it. + +‘Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you +used to call me--don’t use that--Lagnier, say Lagnier!’ + +John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width, +made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right +forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand +everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term +of his life. + +‘Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch +the hand of a gentleman!’ + +Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John +Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his +hand in his patron’s. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a +squeeze, tossed it up and let it go. + +‘Then you were--’ faltered John Baptist. + +‘Not shaved? No. See here!’ cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; ‘as +tight on as your own.’ + +John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to +recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key +in the door, and then sat down upon his bed. + +‘Look!’ he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. ‘That’s a poor trim +for a gentleman, you’ll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I’ll mend +it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!’ + +John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor at +the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time. + +‘That’s well!’ cried Lagnier. ‘Now we might be in the old infernal hole +again, hey? How long have you been out?’ + +‘Two days after you, my master.’ + +‘How do you come here?’ + +‘I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once, +and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and ends at +Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.’ As +he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon +the floor. + +‘And where are you going?’ + +‘Going, my master?’ + +‘Ay!’ + +John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing how. +‘By Bacchus!’ he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, ‘I +have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.’ + +‘Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps +to England. We’ll go together.’ + +The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not +quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement. + +‘We’ll go together,’ repeated Lagnier. ‘You shall see how soon I will +force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by +it. It is agreed? Are we one?’ + +‘Oh, surely, surely!’ said the little man. + +‘Then you shall hear before I sleep--and in six words, for I want +sleep--how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the +other.’ + +‘Altro, altro! Not Ri----’ Before John Baptist could finish the name, his +comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth. + +‘Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon and +stoned? Do _you_ want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You +don’t imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go? +Don’t think it!’ + +There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his +friend’s jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of +events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier would +so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full +share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman Monsieur +Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made. + +‘I am a man,’ said Monsieur Lagnier, ‘whom society has deeply wronged +since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that +it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities +in me? I have been shrieked at through the streets. I have been guarded +through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me +armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in +prison for security, with the place of my confinement kept a secret, +lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have +been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues +away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my +house; and, with a beggar’s pittance in my pocket, I have walked through +vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled--look at +them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon me, +possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to +possess. But society shall pay for it.’ + +All this he said in his companion’s ear, and with his hand before his +lips. + +‘Even here,’ he went on in the same way, ‘even in this mean +drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests +defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments +to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are +treasured in this breast.’ + +To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the suppressed +hoarse voice, said from time to time, ‘Surely, surely!’ tossing his +head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against +society that perfect candour could make out. + +‘Put my shoes there,’ continued Lagnier. ‘Hang my cloak to dry there +by the door. Take my hat.’ He obeyed each instruction, as it was given. +‘And this is the bed to which society consigns me, is it? Hah. _Very_ +well!’ + +As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief +bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the +bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so +very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as +it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did. + +‘Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box again into your company, eh? By +Heaven! So much the better for you. You’ll profit by it. I shall need a +long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.’ + +John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and +wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed +that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to undress; +but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot, +saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with +some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck, +to get through the night. + +When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its +namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in the +door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was astir there +but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and madame’s little +counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid madame his little note +at it over night, and wanted to see nobody--wanted nothing but to get on +his shoes and his knapsack, open the door, and run away. + +He prospered in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he +opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief looked +out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full disc above the +flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out of the long muddy +vista of paved road with its weary avenue of little trees, a black speck +moved along the road and splashed among the flaming pools of rain-water, +which black speck was John Baptist Cavalletto running away from his +patron. + + + + +CHAPTER 12. Bleeding Heart Yard + + +In London itself, though in the old rustic road towards a suburb of note +where in the days of William Shakespeare, author and stage-player, there +were Royal hunting-seats--howbeit no sport is left there now but for +hunters of men--Bleeding Heart Yard was to be found; a place much +changed in feature and in fortune, yet with some relish of ancient +greatness about it. Two or three mighty stacks of chimneys, and a few +large dark rooms which had escaped being walled and subdivided out of +the recognition of their old proportions, gave the Yard a character. +It was inhabited by poor people, who set up their rest among its faded +glories, as Arabs of the desert pitch their tents among the fallen +stones of the Pyramids; but there was a family sentimental feeling +prevalent in the Yard, that it had a character. + +As if the aspiring city had become puffed up in the very ground on which +it stood, the ground had so risen about Bleeding Heart Yard that you +got into it down a flight of steps which formed no part of the original +approach, and got out of it by a low gateway into a maze of shabby +streets, which went about and about, tortuously ascending to the level +again. At this end of the Yard and over the gateway, was the factory of +Daniel Doyce, often heavily beating like a bleeding heart of iron, +with the clink of metal upon metal. + +The opinion of the Yard was divided respecting the derivation of its +name. The more practical of its inmates abided by the tradition of a +murder; the gentler and more imaginative inhabitants, including the +whole of the tender sex, were loyal to the legend of a young lady of +former times closely imprisoned in her chamber by a cruel father for +remaining true to her own true love, and refusing to marry the suitor he +chose for her. The legend related how that the young lady used to be +seen up at her window behind the bars, murmuring a love-lorn song of +which the burden was, ‘Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away,’ +until she died. It was objected by the murderous party that this Refrain +was notoriously the invention of a tambour-worker, a spinster and +romantic, still lodging in the Yard. But, forasmuch as all favourite +legends must be associated with the affections, and as many more people +fall in love than commit murder--which it may be hoped, howsoever bad we +are, will continue until the end of the world to be the dispensation +under which we shall live--the Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding +away story, carried the day by a great majority. Neither party would +listen to the antiquaries who delivered learned lectures in the +neighbourhood, showing the Bleeding Heart to have been the heraldic +cognisance of the old family to whom the property had once belonged. +And, considering that the hour-glass they turned from year to year was +filled with the earthiest and coarsest sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders +had reason enough for objecting to be despoiled of the one little golden +grain of poetry that sparkled in it. + +Down in to the Yard, by way of the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr Meagles, +and Clennam. Passing along the Yard, and between the open doors on +either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children nursing heavy +ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the gateway. Here Arthur +Clennam stopped to look about him for the domicile of Plornish, +plasterer, whose name, according to the custom of Londoners, Daniel +Doyce had never seen or heard of to that hour. + +It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said; over a +lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish kept a ladder +and a barrel or two. The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard which she +had described as his place of habitation, was a large house, let off to +various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted that he lived in the +parlour, by means of a painted hand under his name, the forefinger of +which hand (on which the artist had depicted a ring and a most elaborate +nail of the genteelest form) referred all inquirers to that apartment. + +Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting with +Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with his +knuckles at the parlour-door. It was opened presently by a woman with +a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily rearranging the +upper part of her dress. This was Mrs Plornish, and this maternal +action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large part of her waking +existence. + +Was Mr Plornish at home? ‘Well, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish, a civil woman, +‘not to deceive you, he’s gone to look for a job.’ + +‘Not to deceive you’ was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish. She would +deceive you, under any circumstances, as little as might be; but she had +a trick of answering in this provisional form. + +‘Do you think he will be back soon, if I wait for him?’ + +‘I have been expecting him,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘this half an hour, at +any minute of time. Walk in, sir.’ + +Arthur entered the rather dark and close parlour (though it was lofty +too), and sat down in the chair she placed for him. + +‘Not to deceive you, sir, I notice it,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘and I take +it kind of you.’ + +He was at a loss to understand what she meant; and by expressing as much +in his looks, elicited her explanation. + +‘It ain’t many that comes into a poor place, that deems it worth their +while to move their hats,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘But people think more of +it than people think.’ + +Clennam returned, with an uncomfortable feeling in so very slight a +courtesy being unusual, Was that all! And stooping down to pinch the +cheek of another young child who was sitting on the floor, staring at +him, asked Mrs Plornish how old that fine boy was? + +‘Four year just turned, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘He _is_ a fine little +fellow, ain’t he, sir? But this one is rather sickly.’ She tenderly +hushed the baby in her arms, as she said it. ‘You wouldn’t mind my +asking if it happened to be a job as you was come about, sir, would +you?’ asked Mrs Plornish wistfully. + +She asked it so anxiously, that if he had been in possession of any +kind of tenement, he would have had it plastered a foot deep rather +than answer No. But he was obliged to answer No; and he saw a shade of +disappointment on her face, as she checked a sigh, and looked at the +low fire. Then he saw, also, that Mrs Plornish was a young woman, made +somewhat slatternly in herself and her belongings by poverty; and so +dragged at by poverty and the children together, that their united +forces had already dragged her face into wrinkles. + +‘All such things as jobs,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘seems to me to have gone +underground, they do indeed.’ (Herein Mrs Plornish limited her remark to +the plastering trade, and spoke without reference to the Circumlocution +Office and the Barnacle Family.) + +‘Is it so difficult to get work?’ asked Arthur Clennam. + +‘Plornish finds it so,’ she returned. ‘He is quite unfortunate. Really +he is.’ + +Really he was. He was one of those many wayfarers on the road of life, +who seem to be afflicted with supernatural corns, rendering it +impossible for them to keep up even with their lame competitors. A +willing, working, soft hearted, not hard-headed fellow, Plornish took +his fortune as smoothly as could be expected; but it was a rough one. It +so rarely happened that anybody seemed to want him, it was such an +exceptional case when his powers were in any request, that his misty +mind could not make out how it happened. He took it as it came, +therefore; he tumbled into all kinds of difficulties, and tumbled out of +them; and, by tumbling through life, got himself considerably bruised. + +‘It’s not for want of looking after jobs, I am sure,’ said Mrs Plornish, +lifting up her eyebrows, and searching for a solution of the problem +between the bars of the grate; ‘nor yet for want of working at them when +they are to be got. No one ever heard my husband complain of work.’ + +Somehow or other, this was the general misfortune of Bleeding Heart +Yard. From time to time there were public complaints, pathetically +going about, of labour being scarce--which certain people seemed to take +extraordinarily ill, as though they had an absolute right to it on their +own terms--but Bleeding Heart Yard, though as willing a Yard as any in +Britain, was never the better for the demand. That high old family, the +Barnacles, had long been too busy with their great principle to look +into the matter; and indeed the matter had nothing to do with their +watchfulness in out-generalling all other high old families except the +Stiltstalkings. + +While Mrs Plornish spoke in these words of her absent lord, her lord +returned. A smooth-cheeked, fresh-coloured, sandy-whiskered man of +thirty. Long in the legs, yielding at the knees, foolish in the face, +flannel-jacketed, lime-whitened. + +‘This is Plornish, sir.’ + +‘I came,’ said Clennam, rising, ‘to beg the favour of a little +conversation with you on the subject of the Dorrit family.’ + +Plornish became suspicious. Seemed to scent a creditor. Said, ‘Ah, yes. +Well. He didn’t know what satisfaction _he_ could give any gentleman, +respecting that family. What might it be about, now?’ + +‘I know you better,’ said Clennam, smiling, ‘than you suppose.’ + +Plornish observed, not smiling in return, And yet he hadn’t the pleasure +of being acquainted with the gentleman, neither. + +‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘I know your kind offices at second hand, but on the +best authority; through Little Dorrit.--I mean,’ he explained, ‘Miss +Dorrit.’ + +‘Mr Clennam, is it? Oh! I’ve heard of you, Sir.’ + +‘And I of you,’ said Arthur. + +‘Please to sit down again, Sir, and consider yourself welcome.--Why, +yes,’ said Plornish, taking a chair, and lifting the elder child upon +his knee, that he might have the moral support of speaking to a stranger +over his head, ‘I have been on the wrong side of the Lock myself, and +in that way we come to know Miss Dorrit. Me and my wife, we are well +acquainted with Miss Dorrit.’ + +‘Intimate!’ cried Mrs Plornish. Indeed, she was so proud of the +acquaintance, that she had awakened some bitterness of spirit in the +Yard by magnifying to an enormous amount the sum for which Miss Dorrit’s +father had become insolvent. The Bleeding Hearts resented her claiming +to know people of such distinction. + +‘It was her father that I got acquainted with first. And through getting +acquainted with him, you see--why--I got acquainted with her,’ said +Plornish tautologically. + +‘I see.’ + +‘Ah! And there’s manners! There’s polish! There’s a gentleman to have +run to seed in the Marshalsea jail! Why, perhaps you are not aware,’ +said Plornish, lowering his voice, and speaking with a perverse +admiration of what he ought to have pitied or despised, ‘not aware that +Miss Dorrit and her sister dursn’t let him know that they work for a +living. No!’ said Plornish, looking with a ridiculous triumph first at +his wife, and then all round the room. ‘Dursn’t let him know it, they +dursn’t!’ + +‘Without admiring him for that,’ Clennam quietly observed, ‘I am very +sorry for him.’ The remark appeared to suggest to Plornish, for the +first time, that it might not be a very fine trait of character after +all. He pondered about it for a moment, and gave it up. + +‘As to me,’ he resumed, ‘certainly Mr Dorrit is as affable with me, I +am sure, as I can possibly expect. Considering the differences and +distances betwixt us, more so. But it’s Miss Dorrit that we were +speaking of.’ + +‘True. Pray how did you introduce her at my mother’s!’ + +Mr Plornish picked a bit of lime out of his whisker, put it between his +lips, turned it with his tongue like a sugar-plum, considered, found +himself unequal to the task of lucid explanation, and appealing to his +wife, said, ‘Sally, _you_ may as well mention how it was, old woman.’ + +‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Sally, hushing the baby from side to side, and +laying her chin upon the little hand as it tried to disarrange the gown +again, ‘came here one afternoon with a bit of writing, telling that +how she wished for needlework, and asked if it would be considered any +ill-conwenience in case she was to give her address here.’ (Plornish +repeated, her address here, in a low voice, as if he were making +responses at church.) ‘Me and Plornish says, No, Miss Dorrit, no +ill-conwenience,’ (Plornish repeated, no ill-conwenience,) ‘and she +wrote it in, according. Which then me and Plornish says, Ho Miss +Dorrit!’ (Plornish repeated, Ho Miss Dorrit.) ‘Have you thought of +copying it three or four times, as the way to make it known in more +places than one? No, says Miss Dorrit, I have not, but I will. She +copied it out according, on this table, in a sweet writing, and +Plornish, he took it where he worked, having a job just then,’ (Plornish +repeated job just then,) ‘and likewise to the landlord of the Yard; +through which it was that Mrs Clennam first happened to employ Miss +Dorrit.’ Plornish repeated, employ Miss Dorrit; and Mrs Plornish having +come to an end, feigned to bite the fingers of the little hand as she +kissed it. + +‘The landlord of the Yard,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘is--’ + +‘He is Mr Casby, by name, he is,’ said Plornish, ‘and Pancks, he +collects the rents. That,’ added Mr Plornish, dwelling on the subject +with a slow thoughtfulness that appeared to have no connection with any +specific object, and to lead him nowhere, ‘that is about what _they_ are, +you may believe me or not, as you think proper.’ + +‘Ay?’ returned Clennam, thoughtful in his turn. ‘Mr Casby, too! An old +acquaintance of mine, long ago!’ + +Mr Plornish did not see his road to any comment on this fact, and made +none. As there truly was no reason why he should have the least interest +in it, Arthur Clennam went on to the present purport of his visit; +namely, to make Plornish the instrument of effecting Tip’s release, +with as little detriment as possible to the self-reliance and +self-helpfulness of the young man, supposing him to possess any remnant +of those qualities: without doubt a very wide stretch of supposition. +Plornish, having been made acquainted with the cause of action from the +Defendant’s own mouth, gave Arthur to understand that the Plaintiff +was a ‘Chaunter’--meaning, not a singer of anthems, but a seller of +horses--and that he (Plornish) considered that ten shillings in the +pound ‘would settle handsome,’ and that more would be a waste of money. +The Principal and instrument soon drove off together to a stable-yard in +High Holborn, where a remarkably fine grey gelding, worth, at the lowest +figure, seventy-five guineas (not taking into account the value of the +shot he had been made to swallow for the improvement of his form), was +to be parted with for a twenty-pound note, in consequence of his having +run away last week with Mrs Captain Barbary of Cheltenham, who wasn’t up +to a horse of his courage, and who, in mere spite, insisted on selling +him for that ridiculous sum: or, in other words, on giving him away. +Plornish, going up this yard alone and leaving his Principal outside, +found a gentleman with tight drab legs, a rather old hat, a little +hooked stick, and a blue neckerchief (Captain Maroon of Gloucestershire, +a private friend of Captain Barbary); who happened to be there, in +a friendly way, to mention these little circumstances concerning the +remarkably fine grey gelding to any real judge of a horse and quick +snapper-up of a good thing, who might look in at that address as per +advertisement. This gentleman, happening also to be the Plaintiff in the +Tip case, referred Mr Plornish to his solicitor, and declined to treat +with Mr Plornish, or even to endure his presence in the yard, unless +he appeared there with a twenty-pound note: in which case only, the +gentleman would augur from appearances that he meant business, and +might be induced to talk to him. On this hint, Mr Plornish retired +to communicate with his Principal, and presently came back with the +required credentials. Then said Captain Maroon, ‘Now, how much time do +you want to make the other twenty in? Now, I’ll give you a month.’ Then +said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell what I’ll +do with you. You shall get me a good bill at four months, made payable +at a banking-house, for the other twenty!’ Then said Captain Maroon, +when _that_ wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, come; Here’s the last I’ve got to say +to you. You shall give me another ten down, and I’ll run my pen clean +through it.’ Then said Captain Maroon when _that_ wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, +I’ll tell you what it is, and this shuts it up; he has used me bad, but +I’ll let him off for another five down and a bottle of wine; and if you +mean done, say done, and if you don’t like it, leave it.’ Finally said +Captain Maroon, when _that_ wouldn’t suit either, ‘Hand over, then!’--And +in consideration of the first offer, gave a receipt in full and +discharged the prisoner. + +‘Mr Plornish,’ said Arthur, ‘I trust to you, if you please, to keep my +secret. If you will undertake to let the young man know that he is free, +and to tell him that you were employed to compound for the debt by +some one whom you are not at liberty to name, you will not only do me a +service, but may do him one, and his sister also.’ + +‘The last reason, sir,’ said Plornish, ‘would be quite sufficient. Your +wishes shall be attended to.’ + +‘A Friend has obtained his discharge, you can say if you please. A +Friend who hopes that for his sister’s sake, if for no one else’s, he +will make good use of his liberty.’ + +‘Your wishes, sir, shall be attended to.’ + +‘And if you will be so good, in your better knowledge of the family, as +to communicate freely with me, and to point out to me any means by which +you think I may be delicately and really useful to Little Dorrit, I +shall feel under an obligation to you.’ + +‘Don’t name it, sir,’ returned Plornish, ‘it’ll be ekally a pleasure an +a--it’l be ekally a pleasure and a--’ Finding himself unable to balance +his sentence after two efforts, Mr Plornish wisely dropped it. He took +Clennam’s card and appropriate pecuniary compliment. + +He was earnest to finish his commission at once, and his Principal +was in the same mind. So his Principal offered to set him down at the +Marshalsea Gate, and they drove in that direction over Blackfriars +Bridge. On the way, Arthur elicited from his new friend a confused +summary of the interior life of Bleeding Heart Yard. They was all hard +up there, Mr Plornish said, uncommon hard up, to be sure. Well, he +couldn’t say how it was; he didn’t know as anybody _could_ say how it +was; all he know’d was, that so it was. When a man felt, on his own +back and in his own belly, that poor he was, that man (Mr Plornish gave +it as his decided belief) know’d well that he was poor somehow or +another, and you couldn’t talk it out of him, no more than you could +talk Beef into him. Then you see, some people as was better off said, +and a good many such people lived pretty close up to the mark themselves +if not beyond it so he’d heerd, that they was ‘improvident’ (that was +the favourite word) down the Yard. For instance, if they see a man with +his wife and children going to Hampton Court in a Wan, perhaps once in a +year, they says, ‘Hallo! I thought you was poor, my improvident friend!’ +Why, Lord, how hard it was upon a man! What was a man to do? He couldn’t +go mollancholy mad, and even if he did, you wouldn’t be the better for +it. In Mr Plornish’s judgment you would be the worse for it. Yet you +seemed to want to make a man mollancholy mad. You was always at it--if +not with your right hand, with your left. What was they a doing in the +Yard? Why, take a look at ‘em and see. There was the girls and their +mothers a working at their sewing, or their shoe-binding, or their +trimming, or their waistcoat making, day and night and night and day, +and not more than able to keep body and soul together after all--often +not so much. There was people of pretty well all sorts of trades you +could name, all wanting to work, and yet not able to get it. There was +old people, after working all their lives, going and being shut up in +the workhouse, much worse fed and lodged and treated altogether, +than--Mr Plornish said manufacturers, but appeared to mean malefactors. +Why, a man didn’t know where to turn himself for a crumb of comfort. As +to who was to blame for it, Mr Plornish didn’t know who was to blame for +it. He could tell you who suffered, but he couldn’t tell you whose fault +it was. It wasn’t _his_ place to find out, and who’d mind what he said, +if he did find out? He only know’d that it wasn’t put right by them what +undertook that line of business, and that it didn’t come right of +itself. And, in brief, his illogical opinion was, that if you couldn’t +do nothing for him, you had better take nothing from him for doing of +it; so far as he could make out, that was about what it come to. Thus, +in a prolix, gently-growling, foolish way, did Plornish turn the tangled +skein of his estate about and about, like a blind man who was trying to +find some beginning or end to it; until they reached the prison gate. +There, he left his Principal alone; to wonder, as he rode away, how many +thousand Plornishes there might be within a day or two’s journey of the +Circumlocution Office, playing sundry curious variations on the same +tune, which were not known by ear in that glorious institution. + + + + +CHAPTER 13. Patriarchal + + +The mention of Mr Casby again revived in Clennam’s memory the +smouldering embers of curiosity and interest which Mrs Flintwinch had +fanned on the night of his arrival. Flora Casby had been the beloved of +his boyhood; and Flora was the daughter and only child of wooden-headed +old Christopher (so he was still occasionally spoken of by some +irreverent spirits who had had dealings with him, and in whom +familiarity had bred its proverbial result perhaps), who was reputed to +be rich in weekly tenants, and to get a good quantity of blood out of +the stones of several unpromising courts and alleys. + +After some days of inquiry and research, Arthur Clennam became convinced +that the case of the Father of the Marshalsea was indeed a hopeless one, +and sorrowfully resigned the idea of helping him to freedom again. He +had no hopeful inquiry to make at present, concerning Little Dorrit +either; but he argued with himself that it might--for anything he +knew--it might be serviceable to the poor child, if he renewed this +acquaintance. It is hardly necessary to add that beyond all doubt he +would have presented himself at Mr Casby’s door, if there had been no +Little Dorrit in existence; for we all know how we all deceive +ourselves--that is to say, how people in general, our profounder selves +excepted, deceive themselves--as to motives of action. + +With a comfortable impression upon him, and quite an honest one in its +way, that he was still patronising Little Dorrit in doing what had no +reference to her, he found himself one afternoon at the corner of Mr +Casby’s street. Mr Casby lived in a street in the Gray’s Inn Road, which +had set off from that thoroughfare with the intention of running at one +heat down into the valley, and up again to the top of Pentonville Hill; +but which had run itself out of breath in twenty yards, and had stood +still ever since. There is no such place in that part now; but it +remained there for many years, looking with a baulked countenance at +the wilderness patched with unfruitful gardens and pimpled with eruptive +summerhouses, that it had meant to run over in no time. + +‘The house,’ thought Clennam, as he crossed to the door, ‘is as little +changed as my mother’s, and looks almost as gloomy. But the likeness +ends outside. I know its staid repose within. The smell of its jars of +old rose-leaves and lavender seems to come upon me even here.’ + +When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape brought a +woman-servant to the door, those faded scents in truth saluted him like +wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it of the bygone spring. +He stepped into the sober, silent, air-tight house--one might have +fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in the Eastern manner--and the +door, closing again, seemed to shut out sound and motion. The +furniture was formal, grave, and quaker-like, but well-kept; and had as +prepossessing an aspect as anything, from a human creature to a wooden +stool, that is meant for much use and is preserved for little, can ever +wear. There was a grave clock, ticking somewhere up the staircase; and +there was a songless bird in the same direction, pecking at his cage, as +if he were ticking too. The parlour-fire ticked in the grate. There was +only one person on the parlour-hearth, and the loud watch in his pocket +ticked audibly. + +The servant-maid had ticked the two words ‘Mr Clennam’ so softly that +she had not been heard; and he consequently stood, within the door +she had closed, unnoticed. The figure of a man advanced in life, whose +smooth grey eyebrows seemed to move to the ticking as the fire-light +flickered on them, sat in an arm-chair, with his list shoes on the +rug, and his thumbs slowly revolving over one another. This was old +Christopher Casby--recognisable at a glance--as unchanged in twenty +years and upward as his own solid furniture--as little touched by the +influence of the varying seasons as the old rose-leaves and old lavender +in his porcelain jars. + +Perhaps there never was a man, in this troublesome world, so troublesome +for the imagination to picture as a boy. And yet he had changed very +little in his progress through life. Confronting him, in the room in +which he sat, was a boy’s portrait, which anybody seeing him would have +identified as Master Christopher Casby, aged ten: though disguised with +a haymaking rake, for which he had had, at any time, as much taste or +use as for a diving-bell; and sitting (on one of his own legs) upon a +bank of violets, moved to precocious contemplation by the spire of a +village church. There was the same smooth face and forehead, the same +calm blue eye, the same placid air. The shining bald head, which looked +so very large because it shone so much; and the long grey hair at its +sides and back, like floss silk or spun glass, which looked so very +benevolent because it was never cut; were not, of course, to be seen in +the boy as in the old man. Nevertheless, in the Seraphic creature with +the haymaking rake, were clearly to be discerned the rudiments of the +Patriarch with the list shoes. + +Patriarch was the name which many people delighted to give him. +Various old ladies in the neighbourhood spoke of him as The Last of the +Patriarchs. So grey, so slow, so quiet, so impassionate, so very bumpy +in the head, Patriarch was the word for him. He had been accosted in the +streets, and respectfully solicited to become a Patriarch for painters +and for sculptors; with so much importunity, in sooth, that it would +appear to be beyond the Fine Arts to remember the points of a Patriarch, +or to invent one. Philanthropists of both sexes had asked who he was, +and on being informed, ‘Old Christopher Casby, formerly Town-agent to +Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle,’ had cried in a rapture of disappointment, +‘Oh! why, with that head, is he not a benefactor to his species! Oh! +why, with that head, is he not a father to the orphan and a friend to +the friendless!’ With that head, however, he remained old Christopher +Casby, proclaimed by common report rich in house property; and with that +head, he now sat in his silent parlour. Indeed it would be the height of +unreason to expect him to be sitting there without that head. + +Arthur Clennam moved to attract his attention, and the grey eyebrows +turned towards him. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said Clennam, ‘I fear you did not hear me +announced?’ + +‘No, sir, I did not. Did you wish to see me, sir?’ + +‘I wished to pay my respects.’ + +Mr Casby seemed a feather’s weight disappointed by the last words, +having perhaps prepared himself for the visitor’s wishing to pay +something else. ‘Have I the pleasure, sir,’ he proceeded--‘take a chair, +if you please--have I the pleasure of knowing--? Ah! truly, yes, I think +I have! I believe I am not mistaken in supposing that I am acquainted +with those features? I think I address a gentleman of whose return to +this country I was informed by Mr Flintwinch?’ + +‘That is your present visitor.’ + +‘Really! Mr Clennam?’ + +‘No other, Mr Casby.’ + +‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. How have you been since we met?’ + +Without thinking it worth while to explain that in the course of some +quarter of a century he had experienced occasional slight fluctuations +in his health and spirits, Clennam answered generally that he had never +been better, or something equally to the purpose; and shook hands with +the possessor of ‘that head’ as it shed its patriarchal light upon him. + +‘We are older, Mr Clennam,’ said Christopher Casby. + +‘We are--not younger,’ said Clennam. After this wise remark he felt that +he was scarcely shining with brilliancy, and became aware that he was +nervous. + +‘And your respected father,’ said Mr Casby, ‘is no more! I was grieved +to hear it, Mr Clennam, I was grieved.’ + +Arthur replied in the usual way that he felt infinitely obliged to him. + +‘There was a time,’ said Mr Casby, ‘when your parents and myself were +not on friendly terms. There was a little family misunderstanding among +us. Your respected mother was rather jealous of her son, maybe; when I +say her son, I mean your worthy self, your worthy self.’ + +His smooth face had a bloom upon it like ripe wall-fruit. What with +his blooming face, and that head, and his blue eyes, he seemed to be +delivering sentiments of rare wisdom and virtue. In like manner, his +physiognomical expression seemed to teem with benignity. Nobody could +have said where the wisdom was, or where the virtue was, or where the +benignity was; but they all seemed to be somewhere about him. + +‘Those times, however,’ pursued Mr Casby, ‘are past and gone, past and +gone. I do myself the pleasure of making a visit to your respected +mother occasionally, and of admiring the fortitude and strength of mind +with which she bears her trials, bears her trials.’ + +When he made one of these little repetitions, sitting with his hands +crossed before him, he did it with his head on one side, and a gentle +smile, as if he had something in his thoughts too sweetly profound to be +put into words. As if he denied himself the pleasure of uttering it, +lest he should soar too high; and his meekness therefore preferred to be +unmeaning. + +‘I have heard that you were kind enough on one of those occasions,’ said +Arthur, catching at the opportunity as it drifted past him, ‘to mention +Little Dorrit to my mother.’ + +‘Little--? Dorrit? That’s the seamstress who was mentioned to me by a +small tenant of mine? Yes, yes. Dorrit? That’s the name. Ah, yes, yes! +You call her Little Dorrit?’ + +No road in that direction. Nothing came of the cross-cut. It led no +further. + +‘My daughter Flora,’ said Mr Casby, ‘as you may have heard probably, Mr +Clennam, was married and established in life, several years ago. She +had the misfortune to lose her husband when she had been married a few +months. She resides with me again. She will be glad to see you, if you +will permit me to let her know that you are here.’ + +‘By all means,’ returned Clennam. ‘I should have preferred the request, +if your kindness had not anticipated me.’ + +Upon this Mr Casby rose up in his list shoes, and with a slow, heavy +step (he was of an elephantine build), made for the door. He had a long +wide-skirted bottle-green coat on, and a bottle-green pair of trousers, +and a bottle-green waistcoat. The Patriarchs were not dressed in +bottle-green broadcloth, and yet his clothes looked patriarchal. + +He had scarcely left the room, and allowed the ticking to become audible +again, when a quick hand turned a latchkey in the house-door, opened it, +and shut it. Immediately afterwards, a quick and eager short dark man +came into the room with so much way upon him that he was within a foot +of Clennam before he could stop. + +‘Halloa!’ he said. + +Clennam saw no reason why he should not say ‘Halloa!’ too. + +‘What’s the matter?’ said the short dark man. + +‘I have not heard that anything is the matter,’ returned Clennam. + +‘Where’s Mr Casby?’ asked the short dark man, looking about. + +‘He will be here directly, if you want him.’ + +‘_I_ want him?’ said the short dark man. ‘Don’t you?’ + +This elicited a word or two of explanation from Clennam, during the +delivery of which the short dark man held his breath and looked at him. +He was dressed in black and rusty iron grey; had jet black beads of +eyes; a scrubby little black chin; wiry black hair striking out from his +head in prongs, like forks or hair-pins; and a complexion that was very +dingy by nature, or very dirty by art, or a compound of nature and art. +He had dirty hands and dirty broken nails, and looked as if he had been +in the coals; he was in a perspiration, and snorted and sniffed and +puffed and blew, like a little labouring steam-engine. + +‘Oh!’ said he, when Arthur told him how he came to be there. ‘Very well. +That’s right. If he should ask for Pancks, will you be so good as to say +that Pancks is come in?’ And so, with a snort and a puff, he worked out +by another door. + +Now, in the old days at home, certain audacious doubts respecting the +last of the Patriarchs, which were afloat in the air, had, by some +forgotten means, come in contact with Arthur’s sensorium. He was aware +of motes and specks of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time; seen +through which medium, Christopher Casby was a mere Inn signpost, without +any Inn--an invitation to rest and be thankful, when there was no place +to put up at, and nothing whatever to be thankful for. He knew that some +of these specks even represented Christopher as capable of harbouring +designs in ‘that head,’ and as being a crafty impostor. Other motes +there were which showed him as a heavy, selfish, drifting Booby, who, +having stumbled, in the course of his unwieldy jostlings against other +men, on the discovery that to get through life with ease and credit, +he had but to hold his tongue, keep the bald part of his head well +polished, and leave his hair alone, had had just cunning enough to seize +the idea and stick to it. It was said that his being town-agent to +Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was referable, not to his having the least +business capacity, but to his looking so supremely benignant that nobody +could suppose the property screwed or jobbed under such a man; also, +that for similar reasons he now got more money out of his own wretched +lettings, unquestioned, than anybody with a less nobby and less shining +crown could possibly have done. In a word, it was represented (Clennam +called to mind, alone in the ticking parlour) that many people select +their models, much as the painters, just now mentioned, select theirs; +and that, whereas in the Royal Academy some evil old ruffian of a +Dog-stealer will annually be found embodying all the cardinal virtues, +on account of his eyelashes, or his chin, or his legs (thereby planting +thorns of confusion in the breasts of the more observant students of +nature), so, in the great social Exhibition, accessories are often +accepted in lieu of the internal character. + +Calling these things to mind, and ranging Mr Pancks in a row with them, +Arthur Clennam leaned this day to the opinion, without quite deciding +on it, that the last of the Patriarchs was the drifting Booby aforesaid, +with the one idea of keeping the bald part of his head highly polished: +and that, much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames river may sometimes be +seen heavily driving with the tide, broadside on, stern first, in its +own way and in the way of everything else, though making a great show +of navigation, when all of a sudden, a little coaly steam-tug will bear +down upon it, take it in tow, and bustle off with it; similarly the +cumbrous Patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks, and was +now following in the wake of that dingy little craft. + +The return of Mr Casby with his daughter Flora, put an end to these +meditations. Clennam’s eyes no sooner fell upon the subject of his old +passion than it shivered and broke to pieces. + +Most men will be found sufficiently true to themselves to be true to +an old idea. It is no proof of an inconstant mind, but exactly the +opposite, when the idea will not bear close comparison with the reality, +and the contrast is a fatal shock to it. Such was Clennam’s case. In his +youth he had ardently loved this woman, and had heaped upon her all the +locked-up wealth of his affection and imagination. That wealth had been, +in his desert home, like Robinson Crusoe’s money; exchangeable with no +one, lying idle in the dark to rust, until he poured it out for her. +Ever since that memorable time, though he had, until the night of his +arrival, as completely dismissed her from any association with his +Present or Future as if she had been dead (which she might easily +have been for anything he knew), he had kept the old fancy of the Past +unchanged, in its old sacred place. And now, after all, the last of the +Patriarchs coolly walked into the parlour, saying in effect, ‘Be good +enough to throw it down and dance upon it. This is Flora.’ + +Flora, always tall, had grown to be very broad too, and short of breath; +but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had become a +peony; but that was not much. Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all +she said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much. Flora, who +had been spoiled and artless long ago, was determined to be spoiled and +artless now. That was a fatal blow. + +This is Flora! + +‘I am sure,’ giggled Flora, tossing her head with a caricature of +her girlish manner, such as a mummer might have presented at her own +funeral, if she had lived and died in classical antiquity, ‘I am ashamed +to see Mr Clennam, I am a mere fright, I know he’ll find me fearfully +changed, I am actually an old woman, it’s shocking to be found out, it’s +really shocking!’ + +He assured her that she was just what he had expected and that time had +not stood still with himself. + +‘Oh! But with a gentleman it’s so different and really you look so +amazingly well that you have no right to say anything of the kind, +while, as to me, you know--oh!’ cried Flora with a little scream, ‘I am +dreadful!’ + +The Patriarch, apparently not yet understanding his own part in the +drama under representation, glowed with vacant serenity. + +‘But if we talk of not having changed,’ said Flora, who, whatever +she said, never once came to a full stop, ‘look at Papa, is not Papa +precisely what he was when you went away, isn’t it cruel and unnatural +of Papa to be such a reproach to his own child, if we go on in this way +much longer people who don’t know us will begin to suppose that I am +Papa’s Mama!’ + +That must be a long time hence, Arthur considered. + +‘Oh Mr Clennam you insincerest of creatures,’ said Flora, ‘I perceive +already you have not lost your old way of paying compliments, your old +way when you used to pretend to be so sentimentally struck you know--at +least I don’t mean that, I--oh I don’t know what I mean!’ Here Flora +tittered confusedly, and gave him one of her old glances. + +The Patriarch, as if he now began to perceive that his part in the piece +was to get off the stage as soon as might be, rose, and went to the door +by which Pancks had worked out, hailing that Tug by name. He received +an answer from some little Dock beyond, and was towed out of sight +directly. + +‘You mustn’t think of going yet,’ said Flora--Arthur had looked at his +hat, being in a ludicrous dismay, and not knowing what to do: ‘you could +never be so unkind as to think of going, Arthur--I mean Mr Arthur--or I +suppose Mr Clennam would be far more proper--but I am sure I don’t know +what I am saying--without a word about the dear old days gone for ever, +when I come to think of it I dare say it would be much better not to +speak of them and it’s highly probable that you have some much more +agreeable engagement and pray let Me be the last person in the world +to interfere with it though there _was_ a time, but I am running into +nonsense again.’ + +Was it possible that Flora could have been such a chatterer in the +days she referred to? Could there have been anything like her present +disjointed volubility in the fascinations that had captivated him? + +‘Indeed I have little doubt,’ said Flora, running on with astonishing +speed, and pointing her conversation with nothing but commas, and very +few of them, ‘that you are married to some Chinese lady, being in China +so long and being in business and naturally desirous to settle and +extend your connection nothing was more likely than that you should +propose to a Chinese lady and nothing was more natural I am sure than +that the Chinese lady should accept you and think herself very well off +too, I only hope she’s not a Pagodian dissenter.’ + +‘I am not,’ returned Arthur, smiling in spite of himself, ‘married to +any lady, Flora.’ + +‘Oh good gracious me I hope you never kept yourself a bachelor so long +on my account!’ tittered Flora; ‘but of course you never did why should +you, pray don’t answer, I don’t know where I’m running to, oh do tell me +something about the Chinese ladies whether their eyes are really so long +and narrow always putting me in mind of mother-of-pearl fish at cards +and do they really wear tails down their back and plaited too or is +it only the men, and when they pull their hair so very tight off their +foreheads don’t they hurt themselves, and why do they stick little bells +all over their bridges and temples and hats and things or don’t they +really do it?’ Flora gave him another of her old glances. Instantly she +went on again, as if he had spoken in reply for some time. + +‘Then it’s all true and they really do! good gracious Arthur!--pray +excuse me--old habit--Mr Clennam far more proper--what a country to live +in for so long a time, and with so many lanterns and umbrellas too how +very dark and wet the climate ought to be and no doubt actually is, and +the sums of money that must be made by those two trades where everybody +carries them and hangs them everywhere, the little shoes too and the +feet screwed back in infancy is quite surprising, what a traveller you +are!’ + +In his ridiculous distress, Clennam received another of the old glances +without in the least knowing what to do with it. + +‘Dear dear,’ said Flora, ‘only to think of the changes at home +Arthur--cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr Clennam far more +proper--since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language +which I am persuaded you speak like a Native if not better for you were +always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure +the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur--I +am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper--as no one could have +believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs Finching when I can’t imagine +it myself!’ + +‘Is that your married name?’ asked Arthur, struck, in the midst of all +this, by a certain warmth of heart that expressed itself in her tone +when she referred, however oddly, to the youthful relation in which they +had stood to one another. ‘Finching?’ + +‘Finching oh yes isn’t it a dreadful name, but as Mr F. said when he +proposed to me which he did seven times and handsomely consented I must +say to be what he used to call on liking twelve months, after all, he +wasn’t answerable for it and couldn’t help it could he, Excellent man, +not at all like you but excellent man!’ + +Flora had at last talked herself out of breath for one moment. One +moment; for she recovered breath in the act of raising a minute corner +of her pocket-handkerchief to her eye, as a tribute to the ghost of the +departed Mr F., and began again. + +‘No one could dispute, Arthur--Mr Clennam--that it’s quite right you +should be formally friendly to me under the altered circumstances and +indeed you couldn’t be anything else, at least I suppose not you ought +to know, but I can’t help recalling that there _was_ a time when things +were very different.’ + +‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur began, struck by the good tone again. + +‘Oh not that nasty ugly name, say Flora!’ + +‘Flora. I assure you, Flora, I am happy in seeing you once more, and in +finding that, like me, you have not forgotten the old foolish dreams, +when we saw all before us in the light of our youth and hope.’ + +‘You don’t seem so,’ pouted Flora, ‘you take it very coolly, but +however I know you are disappointed in me, I suppose the Chinese +ladies--Mandarinesses if you call them so--are the cause or perhaps I am +the cause myself, it’s just as likely.’ + +‘No, no,’ Clennam entreated, ‘don’t say that.’ + +‘Oh I must you know,’ said Flora, in a positive tone, ‘what nonsense not +to, I know I am not what you expected, I know that very well.’ + +In the midst of her rapidity, she had found that out with the quick +perception of a cleverer woman. The inconsistent and profoundly +unreasonable way in which she instantly went on, nevertheless, to +interweave their long-abandoned boy and girl relations with their +present interview, made Clennam feel as if he were light-headed. + +‘One remark,’ said Flora, giving their conversation, without the +slightest notice and to the great terror of Clennam, the tone of a +love-quarrel, ‘I wish to make, one explanation I wish to offer, when +your Mama came and made a scene of it with my Papa and when I was called +down into the little breakfast-room where they were looking at one +another with your Mama’s parasol between them seated on two chairs like +mad bulls what was I to do?’ + +‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ urged Clennam--‘all so long ago and so long +concluded, is it worth while seriously to--’ + +‘I can’t Arthur,’ returned Flora, ‘be denounced as heartless by the +whole society of China without setting myself right when I have the +opportunity of doing so, and you must be very well aware that there +was Paul and Virginia which had to be returned and which was returned +without note or comment, not that I mean to say you could have written +to me watched as I was but if it had only come back with a red wafer on +the cover I should have known that it meant Come to Pekin Nankeen and +What’s the third place, barefoot.’ + +‘My dear Mrs Finching, you were not to blame, and I never blamed you. +We were both too young, too dependent and helpless, to do anything but +accept our separation.--Pray think how long ago,’ gently remonstrated +Arthur. + +‘One more remark,’ proceeded Flora with unslackened volubility, ‘I wish +to make, one more explanation I wish to offer, for five days I had a +cold in the head from crying which I passed entirely in the back +drawing-room--there is the back drawing-room still on the first floor +and still at the back of the house to confirm my words--when that dreary +period had passed a lull succeeded years rolled on and Mr F. became +acquainted with us at a mutual friend’s, he was all attention he called +next day he soon began to call three evenings a week and to send +in little things for supper it was not love on Mr F.’s part it was +adoration, Mr F. proposed with the full approval of Papa and what could +I do?’ + +‘Nothing whatever,’ said Arthur, with the cheerfulest readiness, ‘but +what you did. Let an old friend assure you of his full conviction that +you did quite right.’ + +‘One last remark,’ proceeded Flora, rejecting commonplace life with a +wave of her hand, ‘I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer, +there _was_ a time ere Mr F. first paid attentions incapable of being +mistaken, but that is past and was not to be, dear Mr Clennam you no +longer wear a golden chain you are free I trust you may be happy, here +is Papa who is always tiresome and putting in his nose everywhere where +he is not wanted.’ + +With these words, and with a hasty gesture fraught with timid +caution--such a gesture had Clennam’s eyes been familiar with in the old +time--poor Flora left herself at eighteen years of age, a long long way +behind again; and came to a full stop at last. + +Or rather, she left about half of herself at eighteen years of age +behind, and grafted the rest on to the relict of the late Mr F.; thus +making a moral mermaid of herself, which her once boy-lover contemplated +with feelings wherein his sense of the sorrowful and his sense of the +comical were curiously blended. + +For example. As if there were a secret understanding between herself +and Clennam of the most thrilling nature; as if the first of a train of +post-chaises and four, extending all the way to Scotland, were at that +moment round the corner; and as if she couldn’t (and wouldn’t) have +walked into the Parish Church with him, under the shade of the family +umbrella, with the Patriarchal blessing on her head, and the perfect +concurrence of all mankind; Flora comforted her soul with agonies of +mysterious signalling, expressing dread of discovery. With the sensation +of becoming more and more light-headed every minute, Clennam saw the +relict of the late Mr F. enjoying herself in the most wonderful manner, +by putting herself and him in their old places, and going through all +the old performances--now, when the stage was dusty, when the scenery +was faded, when the youthful actors were dead, when the orchestra was +empty, when the lights were out. And still, through all this grotesque +revival of what he remembered as having once been prettily natural to +her, he could not but feel that it revived at sight of him, and that +there was a tender memory in it. + +The Patriarch insisted on his staying to dinner, and Flora signalled +‘Yes!’ Clennam so wished he could have done more than stay to dinner--so +heartily wished he could have found the Flora that had been, or that +never had been--that he thought the least atonement he could make for +the disappointment he almost felt ashamed of, was to give himself up to +the family desire. Therefore, he stayed to dinner. + +Pancks dined with them. Pancks steamed out of his little dock at a +quarter before six, and bore straight down for the Patriarch, who +happened to be then driving, in an inane manner, through a stagnant +account of Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks instantly made fast to him and +hauled him out. + +‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Pancks, with a puff and a snort. ‘It’s a +troublesome property. Don’t pay you badly, but rents are very hard to +get there. You have more trouble with that one place than with all the +places belonging to you.’ + +Just as the big ship in tow gets the credit, with most spectators, of +being the powerful object, so the Patriarch usually seemed to have said +himself whatever Pancks said for him. + +‘Indeed?’ returned Clennam, upon whom this impression was so efficiently +made by a mere gleam of the polished head that he spoke the ship instead +of the Tug. ‘The people are so poor there?’ + +‘_You_ can’t say, you know,’ snorted Pancks, taking one of his dirty hands +out of his rusty iron-grey pockets to bite his nails, if he could find +any, and turning his beads of eyes upon his employer, ‘whether they’re +poor or not. They say they are, but they all say that. When a man says +he’s rich, you’re generally sure he isn’t. Besides, if they _are_ poor, +you can’t help it. You’d be poor yourself if you didn’t get your rents.’ + +‘True enough,’ said Arthur. + +‘You’re not going to keep open house for all the poor of London,’ +pursued Pancks. ‘You’re not going to lodge ‘em for nothing. You’re not +going to open your gates wide and let ‘em come free. Not if you know it, +you ain’t.’ + +Mr Casby shook his head, in Placid and benignant generality. + +‘If a man takes a room of you at half-a-crown a week, and when the week +comes round hasn’t got the half-crown, you say to that man, Why have you +got the room, then? If you haven’t got the one thing, why have you got +the other? What have you been and done with your money? What do you mean +by it? What are you up to? That’s what _you_ say to a man of that sort; +and if you didn’t say it, more shame for you!’ Mr Pancks here made a +singular and startling noise, produced by a strong blowing effort in the +region of the nose, unattended by any result but that acoustic one. + +‘You have some extent of such property about the east and north-east +here, I believe?’ said Clennam, doubtful which of the two to address. + +‘Oh, pretty well,’ said Pancks. ‘You’re not particular to east or +north-east, any point of the compass will do for you. What you want is +a good investment and a quick return. You take it where you can find it. +You ain’t nice as to situation--not you.’ + +There was a fourth and most original figure in the Patriarchal tent, who +also appeared before dinner. This was an amazing little old woman, with +a face like a staring wooden doll too cheap for expression, and a stiff +yellow wig perched unevenly on the top of her head, as if the child who +owned the doll had driven a tack through it anywhere, so that it only +got fastened on. Another remarkable thing in this little old woman was, +that the same child seemed to have damaged her face in two or three +places with some blunt instrument in the nature of a spoon; her +countenance, and particularly the tip of her nose, presenting the +phenomena of several dints, generally answering to the bowl of that +article. A further remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that +she had no name but Mr F.’s Aunt. + +She broke upon the visitor’s view under the following circumstances: +Flora said when the first dish was being put on the table, perhaps Mr +Clennam might not have heard that Mr F. had left her a legacy? Clennam +in return implied his hope that Mr F. had endowed the wife whom he +adored, with the greater part of his worldly substance, if not with all. +Flora said, oh yes, she didn’t mean that, Mr F. had made a beautiful +will, but he had left her as a separate legacy, his Aunt. She then +went out of the room to fetch the legacy, and, on her return, rather +triumphantly presented ‘Mr F.’s Aunt.’ + +The major characteristics discoverable by the stranger in Mr F.’s Aunt, +were extreme severity and grim taciturnity; sometimes interrupted by +a propensity to offer remarks in a deep warning voice, which, being +totally uncalled for by anything said by anybody, and traceable to no +association of ideas, confounded and terrified the Mind. Mr F.’s Aunt +may have thrown in these observations on some system of her own, and it +may have been ingenious, or even subtle: but the key to it was wanted. + +The neatly-served and well-cooked dinner (for everything about the +Patriarchal household promoted quiet digestion) began with some soup, +some fried soles, a butter-boat of shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes. +The conversation still turned on the receipt of rents. Mr F.’s Aunt, +after regarding the company for ten minutes with a malevolent gaze, +delivered the following fearful remark: + +‘When we lived at Henley, Barnes’s gander was stole by tinkers.’ + +Mr Pancks courageously nodded his head and said, ‘All right, ma’am.’ But +the effect of this mysterious communication upon Clennam was absolutely +to frighten him. And another circumstance invested this old lady with +peculiar terrors. Though she was always staring, she never acknowledged +that she saw any individual. The polite and attentive stranger would +desire, say, to consult her inclinations on the subject of potatoes. His +expressive action would be hopelessly lost upon her, and what could he +do? No man could say, ‘Mr F.’s Aunt, will you permit me?’ Every man +retired from the spoon, as Clennam did, cowed and baffled. + +There was mutton, a steak, and an apple-pie--nothing in the remotest +way connected with ganders--and the dinner went on like a disenchanted +feast, as it truly was. Once upon a time Clennam had sat at that table +taking no heed of anything but Flora; now the principal heed he took +of Flora was to observe, against his will, that she was very fond of +porter, that she combined a great deal of sherry with sentiment, and +that if she were a little overgrown, it was upon substantial grounds. +The last of the Patriarchs had always been a mighty eater, and he +disposed of an immense quantity of solid food with the benignity of a +good soul who was feeding some one else. Mr Pancks, who was always in a +hurry, and who referred at intervals to a little dirty notebook which he +kept beside him (perhaps containing the names of the defaulters he meant +to look up by way of dessert), took in his victuals much as if he were +coaling; with a good deal of noise, a good deal of dropping about, and a +puff and a snort occasionally, as if he were nearly ready to steam away. + +All through dinner, Flora combined her present appetite for eating and +drinking with her past appetite for romantic love, in a way that made +Clennam afraid to lift his eyes from his plate; since he could not +look towards her without receiving some glance of mysterious meaning or +warning, as if they were engaged in a plot. Mr F.’s Aunt sat silently +defying him with an aspect of the greatest bitterness, until the removal +of the cloth and the appearance of the decanters, when she originated +another observation--struck into the conversation like a clock, without +consulting anybody. + +Flora had just said, ‘Mr Clennam, will you give me a glass of port for +Mr F.’s Aunt?’ + +‘The Monument near London Bridge,’ that lady instantly proclaimed, ‘was +put up arter the Great Fire of London; and the Great Fire of London was +not the fire in which your uncle George’s workshops was burned down.’ + +Mr Pancks, with his former courage, said, ‘Indeed, ma’am? All right!’ +But appearing to be incensed by imaginary contradiction, or other +ill-usage, Mr F.’s Aunt, instead of relapsing into silence, made the +following additional proclamation: + +‘I hate a fool!’ + +She imparted to this sentiment, in itself almost Solomonic, so extremely +injurious and personal a character by levelling it straight at the +visitor’s head, that it became necessary to lead Mr F.’s Aunt from +the room. This was quietly done by Flora; Mr F.’s Aunt offering no +resistance, but inquiring on her way out, ‘What he come there for, +then?’ with implacable animosity. + +When Flora returned, she explained that her legacy was a clever +old lady, but was sometimes a little singular, and ‘took +dislikes’--peculiarities of which Flora seemed to be proud rather than +otherwise. As Flora’s good nature shone in the case, Clennam had no +fault to find with the old lady for eliciting it, now that he was +relieved from the terrors of her presence; and they took a glass or +two of wine in peace. Foreseeing then that the Pancks would shortly get +under weigh, and that the Patriarch would go to sleep, he pleaded the +necessity of visiting his mother, and asked Mr Pancks in which direction +he was going? + +‘Citywards, sir,’ said Pancks. + +‘Shall we walk together?’ said Arthur. + +‘Quite agreeable,’ said Pancks. + +Meanwhile Flora was murmuring in rapid snatches for his ear, that there +was a time and that the past was a yawning gulf however and that a +golden chain no longer bound him and that she revered the memory of the +late Mr F. and that she should be at home to-morrow at half-past one +and that the decrees of Fate were beyond recall and that she considered +nothing so improbable as that he ever walked on the north-west side of +Gray’s-Inn Gardens at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon. He tried +at parting to give his hand in frankness to the existing Flora--not the +vanished Flora, or the mermaid--but Flora wouldn’t have it, couldn’t +have it, was wholly destitute of the power of separating herself and him +from their bygone characters. He left the house miserably enough; and +so much more light-headed than ever, that if it had not been his good +fortune to be towed away, he might, for the first quarter of an hour, +have drifted anywhere. + +When he began to come to himself, in the cooler air and the absence of +Flora, he found Pancks at full speed, cropping such scanty pasturage of +nails as he could find, and snorting at intervals. These, in conjunction +with one hand in his pocket and his roughened hat hind side before, were +evidently the conditions under which he reflected. + +‘A fresh night!’ said Arthur. + +‘Yes, it’s pretty fresh,’ assented Pancks. ‘As a stranger you feel the +climate more than I do, I dare say. Indeed I haven’t got time to feel +it.’ + +‘You lead such a busy life?’ + +‘Yes, I have always some of ‘em to look up, or something to look after. +But I like business,’ said Pancks, getting on a little faster. ‘What’s a +man made for?’ + +‘For nothing else?’ said Clennam. + +Pancks put the counter question, ‘What else?’ It packed up, in the +smallest compass, a weight that had rested on Clennam’s life; and he +made no answer. + +‘That’s what I ask our weekly tenants,’ said Pancks. ‘Some of ‘em will +pull long faces to me, and say, Poor as you see us, master, we’re always +grinding, drudging, toiling, every minute we’re awake. I say to them, +What else are you made for? It shuts them up. They haven’t a word to +answer. What else are you made for? That clinches it.’ + +‘Ah dear, dear, dear!’ sighed Clennam. + +‘Here am I,’ said Pancks, pursuing his argument with the weekly tenant. +‘What else do you suppose I think I am made for? Nothing. Rattle me out +of bed early, set me going, give me as short a time as you like to bolt +my meals in, and keep me at it. Keep me always at it, and I’ll keep you +always at it, you keep somebody else always at it. There you are with +the Whole Duty of Man in a commercial country.’ + +When they had walked a little further in silence, Clennam said: ‘Have +you no taste for anything, Mr Pancks?’ + +‘What’s taste?’ drily retorted Pancks. + +‘Let us say inclination.’ + +‘I have an inclination to get money, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you will +show me how.’ He blew off that sound again, and it occurred to his +companion for the first time that it was his way of laughing. He was a +singular man in all respects; he might not have been quite in earnest, +but that the short, hard, rapid manner in which he shot out these +cinders of principles, as if it were done by mechanical revolvency, +seemed irreconcilable with banter. + +‘You are no great reader, I suppose?’ said Clennam. + +‘Never read anything but letters and accounts. Never collect anything +but advertisements relative to next of kin. If _that’s_ a taste, I have +got that. You’re not of the Clennams of Cornwall, Mr Clennam?’ + +‘Not that I ever heard of.’ + +‘I know you’re not. I asked your mother, sir. She has too much character +to let a chance escape her.’ + +‘Supposing I had been of the Clennams of Cornwall?’ + +‘You’d have heard of something to your advantage.’ + +‘Indeed! I have heard of little enough to my advantage for some time.’ + +‘There’s a Cornish property going a begging, sir, and not a Cornish +Clennam to have it for the asking,’ said Pancks, taking his note-book +from his breast pocket and putting it in again. ‘I turn off here. I wish +you good night.’ + +‘Good night!’ said Clennam. But the Tug, suddenly lightened, and +untrammelled by having any weight in tow, was already puffing away into +the distance. + +They had crossed Smithfield together, and Clennam was left alone at the +corner of Barbican. He had no intention of presenting himself in his +mother’s dismal room that night, and could not have felt more depressed +and cast away if he had been in a wilderness. He turned slowly down +Aldersgate Street, and was pondering his way along towards Saint Paul’s, +purposing to come into one of the great thoroughfares for the sake of +their light and life, when a crowd of people flocked towards him on the +same pavement, and he stood aside against a shop to let them pass. As +they came up, he made out that they were gathered around a something +that was carried on men’s shoulders. He soon saw that it was a litter, +hastily made of a shutter or some such thing; and a recumbent figure +upon it, and the scraps of conversation in the crowd, and a muddy bundle +carried by one man, and a muddy hat carried by another, informed him +that an accident had occurred. The litter stopped under a lamp before it +had passed him half-a-dozen paces, for some readjustment of the burden; +and, the crowd stopping too, he found himself in the midst of the array. + +‘An accident going to the Hospital?’ he asked an old man beside him, who +stood shaking his head, inviting conversation. + +‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘along of them Mails. They ought to be prosecuted +and fined, them Mails. They come a racing out of Lad Lane and Wood +Street at twelve or fourteen mile a hour, them Mails do. The only wonder +is, that people ain’t killed oftener by them Mails.’ + +‘This person is not killed, I hope?’ + +‘I don’t know!’ said the man, ‘it an’t for the want of a will in them +Mails, if he an’t.’ The speaker having folded his arms, and set in +comfortably to address his depreciation of them Mails to any of the +bystanders who would listen, several voices, out of pure sympathy with +the sufferer, confirmed him; one voice saying to Clennam, ‘They’re a +public nuisance, them Mails, sir;’ another, ‘_I_ see one on ‘em pull up +within half a inch of a boy, last night;’ another, ‘_I_ see one on ‘em +go over a cat, sir--and it might have been your own mother;’ and all +representing, by implication, that if he happened to possess any public +influence, he could not use it better than against them Mails. + +‘Why, a native Englishman is put to it every night of his life, to save +his life from them Mails,’ argued the first old man; ‘and _he_ knows when +they’re a coming round the corner, to tear him limb from limb. What can +you expect from a poor foreigner who don’t know nothing about ‘em!’ + +‘Is this a foreigner?’ said Clennam, leaning forward to look. + +In the midst of such replies as ‘Frenchman, sir,’ ‘Porteghee, sir,’ +‘Dutchman, sir,’ ‘Prooshan, sir,’ and other conflicting testimony, he +now heard a feeble voice asking, both in Italian and in French, for +water. A general remark going round, in reply, of ‘Ah, poor fellow, +he says he’ll never get over it; and no wonder!’ Clennam begged to be +allowed to pass, as he understood the poor creature. He was immediately +handed to the front, to speak to him. + +‘First, he wants some water,’ said he, looking round. (A dozen good +fellows dispersed to get it.) ‘Are you badly hurt, my friend?’ he asked +the man on the litter, in Italian. + +‘Yes, sir; yes, yes, yes. It’s my leg, it’s my leg. But it pleases me to +hear the old music, though I am very bad.’ + +‘You are a traveller! Stay! See, the water! Let me give you some.’ + +They had rested the litter on a pile of paving stones. It was at a +convenient height from the ground, and by stooping he could lightly +raise the head with one hand and hold the glass to his lips with the +other. A little, muscular, brown man, with black hair and white teeth. A +lively face, apparently. Earrings in his ears. + +‘That’s well. You are a traveller?’ + +‘Surely, sir.’ + +‘A stranger in this city?’ + +‘Surely, surely, altogether. I am arrived this unhappy evening.’ + +‘From what country?’ + +‘Marseilles.’ + +‘Why, see there! I also! Almost as much a stranger here as you, though +born here, I came from Marseilles a little while ago. Don’t be cast +down.’ The face looked up at him imploringly, as he rose from wiping it, +and gently replaced the coat that covered the writhing figure. ‘I won’t +leave you till you shall be well taken care of. Courage! You will be +very much better half an hour hence.’ + +‘Ah! Altro, Altro!’ cried the poor little man, in a faintly incredulous +tone; and as they took him up, hung out his right hand to give the +forefinger a back-handed shake in the air. + +Arthur Clennam turned; and walking beside the litter, and saying an +encouraging word now and then, accompanied it to the neighbouring +hospital of Saint Bartholomew. None of the crowd but the bearers and +he being admitted, the disabled man was soon laid on a table in a cool, +methodical way, and carefully examined by a surgeon who was as near at +hand, and as ready to appear as Calamity herself. ‘He hardly knows an +English word,’ said Clennam; ‘is he badly hurt?’ + +‘Let us know all about it first,’ said the surgeon, continuing his +examination with a businesslike delight in it, ‘before we pronounce.’ + +After trying the leg with a finger, and two fingers, and one hand and +two hands, and over and under, and up and down, and in this direction +and in that, and approvingly remarking on the points of interest to +another gentleman who joined him, the surgeon at last clapped the +patient on the shoulder, and said, ‘He won’t hurt. He’ll do very well. +It’s difficult enough, but we shall not want him to part with his leg +this time.’ Which Clennam interpreted to the patient, who was full of +gratitude, and, in his demonstrative way, kissed both the interpreter’s +hand and the surgeon’s several times. + +‘It’s a serious injury, I suppose?’ said Clennam. + +‘Ye-es,’ replied the surgeon, with the thoughtful pleasure of an artist +contemplating the work upon his easel. ‘Yes, it’s enough. There’s a +compound fracture above the knee, and a dislocation below. They are +both of a beautiful kind.’ He gave the patient a friendly clap on the +shoulder again, as if he really felt that he was a very good fellow +indeed, and worthy of all commendation for having broken his leg in a +manner interesting to science. + +‘He speaks French?’ said the surgeon. + +‘Oh yes, he speaks French.’ + +‘He’ll be at no loss here, then.--You have only to bear a little pain +like a brave fellow, my friend, and to be thankful that all goes as +well as it does,’ he added, in that tongue, ‘and you’ll walk again to +a marvel. Now, let us see whether there’s anything else the matter, and +how our ribs are?’ + +There was nothing else the matter, and our ribs were sound. Clennam +remained until everything possible to be done had been skilfully and +promptly done--the poor belated wanderer in a strange land movingly +besought that favour of him--and lingered by the bed to which he was in +due time removed, until he had fallen into a doze. Even then he wrote a +few words for him on his card, with a promise to return to-morrow, and +left it to be given to him when he should awake. + +All these proceedings occupied so long that it struck eleven o’clock at +night as he came out at the Hospital Gate. He had hired a lodging for +the present in Covent Garden, and he took the nearest way to that +quarter, by Snow Hill and Holborn. + +Left to himself again, after the solicitude and compassion of his last +adventure, he was naturally in a thoughtful mood. As naturally, he +could not walk on thinking for ten minutes without recalling Flora. +She necessarily recalled to him his life, with all its misdirection and +little happiness. + +When he got to his lodging, he sat down before the dying fire, as he +had stood at the window of his old room looking out upon the blackened +forest of chimneys, and turned his gaze back upon the gloomy vista by +which he had come to that stage in his existence. So long, so bare, +so blank. No childhood; no youth, except for one remembrance; that one +remembrance proved, only that day, to be a piece of folly. + +It was a misfortune to him, trifle as it might have been to another. +For, while all that was hard and stern in his recollection, remained +Reality on being proved--was obdurate to the sight and touch, and +relaxed nothing of its old indomitable grimness--the one tender +recollection of his experience would not bear the same test, and melted +away. He had foreseen this, on the former night, when he had dreamed +with waking eyes, but he had not felt it then; and he had now. + +He was a dreamer in such wise, because he was a man who had, deep-rooted +in his nature, a belief in all the gentle and good things his life had +been without. Bred in meanness and hard dealing, this had rescued him +to be a man of honourable mind and open hand. Bred in coldness and +severity, this had rescued him to have a warm and sympathetic heart. +Bred in a creed too darkly audacious to pursue, through its process of +reserving the making of man in the image of his Creator to the making of +his Creator in the image of an erring man, this had rescued him to judge +not, and in humility to be merciful, and have hope and charity. + +And this saved him still from the whimpering weakness and cruel +selfishness of holding that because such a happiness or such a virtue +had not come into his little path, or worked well for him, therefore +it was not in the great scheme, but was reducible, when found in +appearance, to the basest elements. A disappointed mind he had, but a +mind too firm and healthy for such unwholesome air. Leaving himself in +the dark, it could rise into the light, seeing it shine on others and +hailing it. + +Therefore, he sat before his dying fire, sorrowful to think upon the way +by which he had come to that night, yet not strewing poison on the way +by which other men had come to it. That he should have missed so much, +and at his time of life should look so far about him for any staff to +bear him company upon his downward journey and cheer it, was a just +regret. He looked at the fire from which the blaze departed, from which +the afterglow subsided, in which the ashes turned grey, from which they +dropped to dust, and thought, ‘How soon I too shall pass through such +changes, and be gone!’ + +To review his life was like descending a green tree in fruit and flower, +and seeing all the branches wither and drop off, one by one, as he came +down towards them. + +‘From the unhappy suppression of my youngest days, through the rigid and +unloving home that followed them, through my departure, my long exile, +my return, my mother’s welcome, my intercourse with her since, down to +the afternoon of this day with poor Flora,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘what +have I found!’ + +His door was softly opened, and these spoken words startled him, and +came as if they were an answer: + +‘Little Dorrit.’ + + + + +CHAPTER 14. Little Dorrit’s Party + + +Arthur Clennam rose hastily, and saw her standing at the door. This +history must sometimes see with Little Dorrit’s eyes, and shall begin +that course by seeing him. + +Little Dorrit looked into a dim room, which seemed a spacious one to +her, and grandly furnished. Courtly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place +with famous coffee-houses, where gentlemen wearing gold-laced coats and +swords had quarrelled and fought duels; costly ideas of Covent Garden, +as a place where there were flowers in winter at guineas a-piece, +pine-apples at guineas a pound, and peas at guineas a pint; picturesque +ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there was a mighty theatre, +showing wonderful and beautiful sights to richly-dressed ladies and +gentlemen, and which was for ever far beyond the reach of poor Fanny or +poor uncle; desolate ideas of Covent Garden, as having all those arches +in it, where the miserable children in rags among whom she had just now +passed, like young rats, slunk and hid, fed on offal, huddled together +for warmth, and were hunted about (look to the rats young and old, all +ye Barnacles, for before God they are eating away our foundations, and +will bring the roofs on our heads!); teeming ideas of Covent Garden, as +a place of past and present mystery, romance, abundance, want, beauty, +ugliness, fair country gardens, and foul street gutters; all confused +together,--made the room dimmer than it was in Little Dorrit’s eyes, as +they timidly saw it from the door. + +At first in the chair before the gone-out fire, and then turned round +wondering to see her, was the gentleman whom she sought. The brown, +grave gentleman, who smiled so pleasantly, who was so frank and +considerate in his manner, and yet in whose earnestness there was +something that reminded her of his mother, with the great difference +that she was earnest in asperity and he in gentleness. Now he regarded +her with that attentive and inquiring look before which Little Dorrit’s +eyes had always fallen, and before which they fell still. + +‘My poor child! Here at midnight?’ + +‘I said Little Dorrit, sir, on purpose to prepare you. I knew you must +be very much surprised.’ + +‘Are you alone?’ + +‘No sir, I have got Maggy with me.’ + +Considering her entrance sufficiently prepared for by this mention of +her name, Maggy appeared from the landing outside, on the broad grin. +She instantly suppressed that manifestation, however, and became fixedly +solemn. + +‘And I have no fire,’ said Clennam. ‘And you are--’ He was going to say +so lightly clad, but stopped himself in what would have been a reference +to her poverty, saying instead, ‘And it is so cold.’ + +Putting the chair from which he had risen nearer to the grate, he made +her sit down in it; and hurriedly bringing wood and coal, heaped them +together and got a blaze. + +‘Your foot is like marble, my child;’ he had happened to touch it, while +stooping on one knee at his work of kindling the fire; ‘put it nearer +the warmth.’ Little Dorrit thanked him hastily. It was quite warm, it +was very warm! It smote upon his heart to feel that she hid her thin, +worn shoe. + +Little Dorrit was not ashamed of her poor shoes. He knew her story, and +it was not that. Little Dorrit had a misgiving that he might blame her +father, if he saw them; that he might think, ‘why did he dine to-day, +and leave this little creature to the mercy of the cold stones!’ She had +no belief that it would have been a just reflection; she simply knew, +by experience, that such delusions did sometimes present themselves to +people. It was a part of her father’s misfortunes that they did. + +‘Before I say anything else,’ Little Dorrit began, sitting before +the pale fire, and raising her eyes again to the face which in its +harmonious look of interest, and pity, and protection, she felt to be a +mystery far above her in degree, and almost removed beyond her guessing +at; ‘may I tell you something, sir?’ + +‘Yes, my child.’ + +A slight shade of distress fell upon her, at his so often calling her a +child. She was surprised that he should see it, or think of such a +slight thing; but he said directly: + +‘I wanted a tender word, and could think of no other. As you just now +gave yourself the name they give you at my mother’s, and as that is the +name by which I always think of you, let me call you Little Dorrit.’ + +‘Thank you, sir, I should like it better than any name.’ + +‘Little Dorrit.’ + +‘Little mother,’ Maggy (who had been falling asleep) put in, as a +correction. + +‘It’s all the same, Maggy,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘all the same.’ + +‘Is it all the same, mother?’ + +‘Just the same.’ + +Maggy laughed, and immediately snored. In Little Dorrit’s eyes and ears, +the uncouth figure and the uncouth sound were as pleasant as could be. +There was a glow of pride in her big child, overspreading her face, when +it again met the eyes of the grave brown gentleman. She wondered what he +was thinking of, as he looked at Maggy and her. She thought what a +good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and +cherish his daughter. + +‘What I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘is, that my +brother is at large.’ + +Arthur was rejoiced to hear it, and hoped he would do well. + +‘And what I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling +in all her little figure and in her voice, ‘is, that I am not to know +whose generosity released him--am never to ask, and am never to be told, +and am never to thank that gentleman with all my grateful heart!’ + +He would probably need no thanks, Clennam said. Very likely he would be +thankful himself (and with reason), that he had had the means and chance +of doing a little service to her, who well deserved a great one. + +‘And what I was going to say, sir, is,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling +more and more, ‘that if I knew him, and I might, I would tell him that +he can never, never know how I feel his goodness, and how my good father +would feel it. And what I was going to say, sir, is, that if I knew him, +and I might--but I don’t know him and I must not--I know that!--I would +tell him that I shall never any more lie down to sleep without having +prayed to Heaven to bless him and reward him. And if I knew him, and I +might, I would go down on my knees to him, and take his hand and kiss +it and ask him not to draw it away, but to leave it--O to leave it for a +moment--and let my thankful tears fall on it; for I have no other thanks +to give him!’ + +Little Dorrit had put his hand to her lips, and would have kneeled to +him, but he gently prevented her, and replaced her in her chair. Her +eyes, and the tones of her voice, had thanked him far better than she +thought. He was not able to say, quite as composedly as usual, ‘There, +Little Dorrit, there, there, there! We will suppose that you did know +this person, and that you might do all this, and that it was all done. +And now tell me, Who am quite another person--who am nothing more than +the friend who begged you to trust him--why you are out at midnight, and +what it is that brings you so far through the streets at this late hour, +my slight, delicate,’ child was on his lips again, ‘Little Dorrit!’ + +‘Maggy and I have been to-night,’ she answered, subduing herself with +the quiet effort that had long been natural to her, ‘to the theatre +where my sister is engaged.’ + +‘And oh ain’t it a Ev’nly place,’ suddenly interrupted Maggy, who seemed +to have the power of going to sleep and waking up whenever she chose. +‘Almost as good as a hospital. Only there ain’t no Chicking in it.’ + +Here she shook herself, and fell asleep again. + +‘We went there,’ said Little Dorrit, glancing at her charge, ‘because +I like sometimes to know, of my own knowledge, that my sister is doing +well; and like to see her there, with my own eyes, when neither she nor +Uncle is aware. It is very seldom indeed that I can do that, because +when I am not out at work, I am with my father, and even when I am out +at work, I hurry home to him. But I pretend to-night that I am at a +party.’ + +As she made the confession, timidly hesitating, she raised her eyes to +the face, and read its expression so plainly that she answered it. + +‘Oh no, certainly! I never was at a party in my life.’ + +She paused a little under his attentive look, and then said, ‘I hope +there is no harm in it. I could never have been of any use, if I had +not pretended a little.’ + +She feared that he was blaming her in his mind for so devising to +contrive for them, think for them, and watch over them, without their +knowledge or gratitude; perhaps even with their reproaches for supposed +neglect. But what was really in his mind, was the weak figure with its +strong purpose, the thin worn shoes, the insufficient dress, and the +pretence of recreation and enjoyment. He asked where the suppositious +party was? At a place where she worked, answered Little Dorrit, +blushing. She had said very little about it; only a few words to +make her father easy. Her father did not believe it to be a grand +party--indeed he might suppose that. And she glanced for an instant at +the shawl she wore. + +‘It is the first night,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I have ever been away +from home. And London looks so large, so barren, and so wild.’ In Little +Dorrit’s eyes, its vastness under the black sky was awful; a tremor +passed over her as she said the words. + +‘But this is not,’ she added, with the quiet effort again, ‘what I have +come to trouble you with, sir. My sister’s having found a friend, a lady +she has told me of and made me rather anxious about, was the first cause +of my coming away from home. And being away, and coming (on purpose) +round by where you lived and seeing a light in the window--’ + +Not for the first time. No, not for the first time. In Little Dorrit’s +eyes, the outside of that window had been a distant star on other nights +than this. She had toiled out of her way, tired and troubled, to look up +at it, and wonder about the grave, brown gentleman from so far off, who +had spoken to her as a friend and protector. + +‘There were three things,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I thought I would +like to say, if you were alone and I might come up-stairs. First, what I +have tried to say, but never can--never shall--’ + +‘Hush, hush! That is done with, and disposed of. Let us pass to the +second,’ said Clennam, smiling her agitation away, making the blaze +shine upon her, and putting wine and cake and fruit towards her on the +table. + +‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit--‘this is the second thing, sir--I think +Mrs Clennam must have found out my secret, and must know where I come +from and where I go to. Where I live, I mean.’ + +‘Indeed!’ returned Clennam quickly. He asked her, after short +consideration, why she supposed so. + +‘I think,’ replied Little Dorrit, ‘that Mr Flintwinch must have watched +me.’ + +And why, Clennam asked, as he turned his eyes upon the fire, bent his +brows, and considered again; why did she suppose that? + +‘I have met him twice. Both times near home. Both times at night, when +I was going back. Both times I thought (though that may easily be my +mistake), that he hardly looked as if he had met me by accident.’ + +‘Did he say anything?’ + +‘No; he only nodded and put his head on one side.’ + +‘The devil take his head!’ mused Clennam, still looking at the fire; +‘it’s always on one side.’ + +He roused himself to persuade her to put some wine to her lips, and to +touch something to eat--it was very difficult, she was so timid and +shy--and then said, musing again: + +‘Is my mother at all changed to you?’ + +‘Oh, not at all. She is just the same. I wondered whether I had better +tell her my history. I wondered whether I might--I mean, whether you +would like me to tell her. I wondered,’ said Little Dorrit, looking at +him in a suppliant way, and gradually withdrawing her eyes as he looked +at her, ‘whether you would advise me what I ought to do.’ + +‘Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam; and the phrase had already begun, between +these two, to stand for a hundred gentle phrases, according to the +varying tone and connection in which it was used; ‘do nothing. I will +have some talk with my old friend, Mrs Affery. Do nothing, Little +Dorrit--except refresh yourself with such means as there are here. I +entreat you to do that.’ + +‘Thank you, I am not hungry. Nor,’ said Little Dorrit, as he softly +put her glass towards her, ‘nor thirsty.--I think Maggy might like +something, perhaps.’ + +‘We will make her find pockets presently for all there is here,’ said +Clennam: ‘but before we awake her, there was a third thing to say.’ + +‘Yes. You will not be offended, sir?’ + +‘I promise that, unreservedly.’ + +‘It will sound strange. I hardly know how to say it. Don’t think it +unreasonable or ungrateful in me,’ said Little Dorrit, with returning +and increasing agitation. + +‘No, no, no. I am sure it will be natural and right. I am not afraid +that I shall put a wrong construction on it, whatever it is.’ + +‘Thank you. You are coming back to see my father again?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘You have been so good and thoughtful as to write him a note, saying +that you are coming to-morrow?’ + +‘Oh, that was nothing! Yes.’ + +‘Can you guess,’ said Little Dorrit, folding her small hands tight in +one another, and looking at him with all the earnestness of her soul +looking steadily out of her eyes, ‘what I am going to ask you not to +do?’ + +‘I think I can. But I may be wrong.’ + +‘No, you are not wrong,’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head. ‘If we +should want it so very, very badly that we cannot do without it, let me +ask you for it.’ + +‘I Will,--I Will.’ + +‘Don’t encourage him to ask. Don’t understand him if he does ask. Don’t +give it to him. Save him and spare him that, and you will be able to +think better of him!’ + +Clennam said--not very plainly, seeing those tears glistening in her +anxious eyes--that her wish should be sacred with him. + +‘You don’t know what he is,’ she said; ‘you don’t know what he really +is. How can you, seeing him there all at once, dear love, and not +gradually, as I have done! You have been so good to us, so delicately +and truly good, that I want him to be better in your eyes than in +anybody’s. And I cannot bear to think,’ cried Little Dorrit, covering +her tears with her hands, ‘I cannot bear to think that you of all the +world should see him in his only moments of degradation.’ + +‘Pray,’ said Clennam, ‘do not be so distressed. Pray, pray, Little +Dorrit! This is quite understood now.’ + +‘Thank you, sir. Thank you! I have tried very much to keep myself from +saying this; I have thought about it, days and nights; but when I knew +for certain you were coming again, I made up my mind to speak to you. +Not because I am ashamed of him,’ she dried her tears quickly, ‘but +because I know him better than any one does, and love him, and am proud +of him.’ + +Relieved of this weight, Little Dorrit was nervously anxious to be gone. +Maggy being broad awake, and in the act of distantly gloating over the +fruit and cakes with chuckles of anticipation, Clennam made the best +diversion in his power by pouring her out a glass of wine, which she +drank in a series of loud smacks; putting her hand upon her windpipe +after every one, and saying, breathless, with her eyes in a prominent +state, ‘Oh, ain’t it d’licious! Ain’t it hospitally!’ When she had +finished the wine and these encomiums, he charged her to load her basket +(she was never without her basket) with every eatable thing upon the +table, and to take especial care to leave no scrap behind. Maggy’s +pleasure in doing this and her little mother’s pleasure in seeing Maggy +pleased, was as good a turn as circumstances could have given to the +late conversation. + +‘But the gates will have been locked long ago,’ said Clennam, suddenly +remembering it. ‘Where are you going?’ + +‘I am going to Maggy’s lodging,’ answered Little Dorrit. ‘I shall be +quite safe, quite well taken care of.’ + +‘I must accompany you there,’ said Clennam, ‘I cannot let you go alone.’ + +‘Yes, pray leave us to go there by ourselves. Pray do!’ begged Little +Dorrit. + +She was so earnest in the petition, that Clennam felt a delicacy in +obtruding himself upon her: the rather, because he could well understand +that Maggy’s lodging was of the obscurest sort. ‘Come, Maggy,’ said +Little Dorrit cheerily, ‘we shall do very well; we know the way by this +time, Maggy?’ + +‘Yes, yes, little mother; we know the way,’ chuckled Maggy. And away +they went. Little Dorrit turned at the door to say, ‘God bless you!’ She +said it very softly, but perhaps she may have been as audible above--who +knows!--as a whole cathedral choir. + +Arthur Clennam suffered them to pass the corner of the street before he +followed at a distance; not with any idea of encroaching a second time +on Little Dorrit’s privacy, but to satisfy his mind by seeing her secure +in the neighbourhood to which she was accustomed. So diminutive she +looked, so fragile and defenceless against the bleak damp weather, +flitting along in the shuffling shadow of her charge, that he felt, in +his compassion, and in his habit of considering her a child apart from +the rest of the rough world, as if he would have been glad to take her +up in his arms and carry her to her journey’s end. + +In course of time she came into the leading thoroughfare where the +Marshalsea was, and then he saw them slacken their pace, and soon turn +down a by-street. He stopped, felt that he had no right to go further, +and slowly left them. He had no suspicion that they ran any risk of +being houseless until morning; had no idea of the truth until long, long +afterwards. + +But, said Little Dorrit, when they stopped at a poor dwelling all in +darkness, and heard no sound on listening at the door, ‘Now, this is a +good lodging for you, Maggy, and we must not give offence. Consequently, +we will only knock twice, and not very loud; and if we cannot wake them +so, we must walk about till day.’ + +Once, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. Twice, +Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. All was close +and still. ‘Maggy, we must do the best we can, my dear. We must be +patient, and wait for day.’ + +It was a chill dark night, with a damp wind blowing, when they came out +into the leading street again, and heard the clocks strike half-past +one. ‘In only five hours and a half,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘we shall be +able to go home.’ To speak of home, and to go and look at it, it being +so near, was a natural sequence. They went to the closed gate, and +peeped through into the court-yard. ‘I hope he is sound asleep,’ said +Little Dorrit, kissing one of the bars, ‘and does not miss me.’ + +The gate was so familiar, and so like a companion, that they put down +Maggy’s basket in a corner to serve for a seat, and keeping close +together, rested there for some time. While the street was empty and +silent, Little Dorrit was not afraid; but when she heard a footstep at +a distance, or saw a moving shadow among the street lamps, she was +startled, and whispered, ‘Maggy, I see some one. Come away!’ Maggy +would then wake up more or less fretfully, and they would wander about a +little, and come back again. + +As long as eating was a novelty and an amusement, Maggy kept up pretty +well. But that period going by, she became querulous about the cold, and +shivered and whimpered. ‘It will soon be over, dear,’ said Little Dorrit +patiently. ‘Oh it’s all very fine for you, little mother,’ returned +Maggy, ‘but I’m a poor thing, only ten years old.’ At last, in the dead +of the night, when the street was very still indeed, Little Dorrit laid +the heavy head upon her bosom, and soothed her to sleep. And thus she +sat at the gate, as it were alone; looking up at the stars, and seeing +the clouds pass over them in their wild flight--which was the dance at +Little Dorrit’s party. + +‘If it really was a party!’ she thought once, as she sat there. ‘If it +was light and warm and beautiful, and it was our house, and my poor dear +was its master, and had never been inside these walls. And if Mr +Clennam was one of our visitors, and we were dancing to delightful +music, and were all as gay and light-hearted as ever we could be! I +wonder--’ Such a vista of wonder opened out before her, that she sat +looking up at the stars, quite lost, until Maggy was querulous again, +and wanted to get up and walk. + +Three o’clock, and half-past three, and they had passed over London +Bridge. They had heard the rush of the tide against obstacles; and +looked down, awed, through the dark vapour on the river; had seen little +spots of lighted water where the bridge lamps were reflected, shining +like demon eyes, with a terrible fascination in them for guilt and +misery. They had shrunk past homeless people, lying coiled up in +nooks. They had run from drunkards. They had started from slinking men, +whistling and signing to one another at bye corners, or running away at +full speed. Though everywhere the leader and the guide, Little Dorrit, +happy for once in her youthful appearance, feigned to cling to and rely +upon Maggy. And more than once some voice, from among a knot of brawling +or prowling figures in their path, had called out to the rest to ‘let +the woman and the child go by!’ + +So, the woman and the child had gone by, and gone on, and five had +sounded from the steeples. They were walking slowly towards the east, +already looking for the first pale streak of day, when a woman came +after them. + +‘What are you doing with the child?’ she said to Maggy. + +She was young--far too young to be there, Heaven knows!--and neither +ugly nor wicked-looking. She spoke coarsely, but with no naturally +coarse voice; there was even something musical in its sound. + +‘What are you doing with yourself?’ retorted Maggy, for want of a better +answer. + +‘Can’t you see, without my telling you?’ + +‘I don’t know as I can,’ said Maggy. + +‘Killing myself! Now I have answered you, answer me. What are you doing +with the child?’ + +The supposed child kept her head drooped down, and kept her form close +at Maggy’s side. + +‘Poor thing!’ said the woman. ‘Have you no feeling, that you keep her +out in the cruel streets at such a time as this? Have you no eyes, that +you don’t see how delicate and slender she is? Have you no sense (you +don’t look as if you had much) that you don’t take more pity on this +cold and trembling little hand?’ + +She had stepped across to that side, and held the hand between her own +two, chafing it. ‘Kiss a poor lost creature, dear,’ she said, bending +her face, ‘and tell me where’s she taking you.’ + +Little Dorrit turned towards her. + +‘Why, my God!’ she said, recoiling, ‘you’re a woman!’ + +‘Don’t mind that!’ said Little Dorrit, clasping one of her hands that +had suddenly released hers. ‘I am not afraid of you.’ + +‘Then you had better be,’ she answered. ‘Have you no mother?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘No father?’ + +‘Yes, a very dear one.’ + +‘Go home to him, and be afraid of me. Let me go. Good night!’ + +‘I must thank you first; let me speak to you as if I really were a +child.’ + +‘You can’t do it,’ said the woman. ‘You are kind and innocent; but you +can’t look at me out of a child’s eyes. I never should have touched you, +but I thought that you were a child.’ And with a strange, wild cry, she +went away. + +No day yet in the sky, but there was day in the resounding stones of +the streets; in the waggons, carts, and coaches; in the workers going +to various occupations; in the opening of early shops; in the traffic +at markets; in the stir of the riverside. There was coming day in the +flaring lights, with a feebler colour in them than they would have had +at another time; coming day in the increased sharpness of the air, and +the ghastly dying of the night. + +They went back again to the gate, intending to wait there now until it +should be opened; but the air was so raw and cold that Little Dorrit, +leading Maggy about in her sleep, kept in motion. Going round by the +Church, she saw lights there, and the door open; and went up the steps +and looked in. + +‘Who’s that?’ cried a stout old man, who was putting on a nightcap as if +he were going to bed in a vault. + +‘It’s no one particular, sir,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘Stop!’ cried the man. ‘Let’s have a look at you!’ + +This caused her to turn back again in the act of going out, and to +present herself and her charge before him. + +‘I thought so!’ said he. ‘I know _you_.’ + +‘We have often seen each other,’ said Little Dorrit, recognising the +sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, ‘when I have +been at church here.’ + +‘More than that, we’ve got your birth in our Register, you know; you’re +one of our curiosities.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘To be sure. As the child of the--by-the-bye, how did you get out so +early?’ + +‘We were shut out last night, and are waiting to get in.’ + +‘You don’t mean it? And there’s another hour good yet! Come into the +vestry. You’ll find a fire in the vestry, on account of the painters. +I’m waiting for the painters, or I shouldn’t be here, you may depend +upon it. One of our curiosities mustn’t be cold when we have it in our +power to warm her up comfortable. Come along.’ + +He was a very good old fellow, in his familiar way; and having stirred +the vestry fire, he looked round the shelves of registers for a +particular volume. ‘Here you are, you see,’ he said, taking it down and +turning the leaves. ‘Here you’ll find yourself, as large as life. Amy, +daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born, Marshalsea Prison, Parish of +St George. And we tell people that you have lived there, without so much +as a day’s or a night’s absence, ever since. Is it true?’ + +‘Quite true, till last night.’ + +‘Lord!’ But his surveying her with an admiring gaze suggested Something +else to him, to wit: ‘I am sorry to see, though, that you are faint and +tired. Stay a bit. I’ll get some cushions out of the church, and you and +your friend shall lie down before the fire. Don’t be afraid of not +going in to join your father when the gate opens. _I’ll_ call you.’ + +He soon brought in the cushions, and strewed them on the ground. + +‘There you are, you see. Again as large as life. Oh, never mind +thanking. I’ve daughters of my own. And though they weren’t born in the +Marshalsea Prison, they might have been, if I had been, in my ways of +carrying on, of your father’s breed. Stop a bit. I must put something +under the cushion for your head. Here’s a burial volume, just the +thing! We have got Mrs Bangham in this book. But what makes these books +interesting to most people is--not who’s in ‘em, but who isn’t--who’s +coming, you know, and when. That’s the interesting question.’ + +Commendingly looking back at the pillow he had improvised, he left them +to their hour’s repose. Maggy was snoring already, and Little Dorrit +was soon fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate, +untroubled by its mysterious blank leaves. + +This was Little Dorrit’s party. The shame, desertion, wretchedness, and +exposure of the great capital; the wet, the cold, the slow hours, and +the swift clouds of the dismal night. This was the party from which +Little Dorrit went home, jaded, in the first grey mist of a rainy +morning. + + + + +CHAPTER 15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream + + +The debilitated old house in the city, wrapped in its mantle of soot, +and leaning heavily on the crutches that had partaken of its decay and +worn out with it, never knew a healthy or a cheerful interval, let what +would betide. If the sun ever touched it, it was but with a ray, and +that was gone in half an hour; if the moonlight ever fell upon it, it +was only to put a few patches on its doleful cloak, and make it look +more wretched. The stars, to be sure, coldly watched it when the nights +and the smoke were clear enough; and all bad weather stood by it with +a rare fidelity. You should alike find rain, hail, frost, and thaw +lingering in that dismal enclosure when they had vanished from other +places; and as to snow, you should see it there for weeks, long after +it had changed from yellow to black, slowly weeping away its grimy life. +The place had no other adherents. As to street noises, the rumbling of +wheels in the lane merely rushed in at the gateway in going past, and +rushed out again: making the listening Mistress Affery feel as if she +were deaf, and recovered the sense of hearing by instantaneous flashes. +So with whistling, singing, talking, laughing, and all pleasant human +sounds. They leaped the gap in a moment, and went upon their way. + +The varying light of fire and candle in Mrs Clennam’s room made the +greatest change that ever broke the dead monotony of the spot. In her +two long narrow windows, the fire shone sullenly all day, and sullenly +all night. On rare occasions it flashed up passionately, as she did; but +for the most part it was suppressed, like her, and preyed upon itself +evenly and slowly. During many hours of the short winter days, however, +when it was dusk there early in the afternoon, changing distortions of +herself in her wheeled chair, of Mr Flintwinch with his wry neck, of +Mistress Affery coming and going, would be thrown upon the house wall +that was over the gateway, and would hover there like shadows from a +great magic lantern. As the room-ridden invalid settled for the night, +these would gradually disappear: Mistress Affery’s magnified shadow +always flitting about, last, until it finally glided away into the air, +as though she were off upon a witch excursion. Then the solitary light +would burn unchangingly, until it burned pale before the dawn, and at +last died under the breath of Mrs Affery, as her shadow descended on it +from the witch-region of sleep. + +Strange, if the little sick-room fire were in effect a beacon fire, +summoning some one, and that the most unlikely some one in the world, to +the spot that _must_ be come to. Strange, if the little sick-room light +were in effect a watch-light, burning in that place every night until an +appointed event should be watched out! Which of the vast multitude of +travellers, under the sun and the stars, climbing the dusty hills and +toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by +sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one +another; which of the host may, with no suspicion of the journey’s end, +be travelling surely hither? + +Time shall show us. The post of honour and the post of shame, the +general’s station and the drummer’s, a peer’s statue in Westminster +Abbey and a seaman’s hammock in the bosom of the deep, the mitre and +the workhouse, the woolsack and the gallows, the throne and the +guillotine--the travellers to all are on the great high road, but it +has wonderful divergencies, and only Time shall show us whither each +traveller is bound. + +On a wintry afternoon at twilight, Mrs Flintwinch, having been heavy all +day, dreamed this dream: + +She thought she was in the kitchen getting the kettle ready for tea, and +was warming herself with her feet upon the fender and the skirt of her +gown tucked up, before the collapsed fire in the middle of the grate, +bordered on either hand by a deep cold black ravine. She thought that +as she sat thus, musing upon the question whether life was not for some +people a rather dull invention, she was frightened by a sudden noise +behind her. She thought that she had been similarly frightened once last +week, and that the noise was of a mysterious kind--a sound of rustling +and of three or four quick beats like a rapid step; while a shock or +tremble was communicated to her heart, as if the step had shaken the +floor, or even as if she had been touched by some awful hand. She +thought that this revived within her certain old fears of hers that +the house was haunted; and that she flew up the kitchen stairs without +knowing how she got up, to be nearer company. + +Mistress Affery thought that on reaching the hall, she saw the door of +her liege lord’s office standing open, and the room empty. That she went +to the ripped-up window in the little room by the street door to connect +her palpitating heart, through the glass, with living things beyond +and outside the haunted house. That she then saw, on the wall over the +gateway, the shadows of the two clever ones in conversation above. That +she then went upstairs with her shoes in her hand, partly to be near +the clever ones as a match for most ghosts, and partly to hear what they +were talking about. + +‘None of your nonsense with me,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘I won’t take it +from you.’ + +Mrs Flintwinch dreamed that she stood behind the door, which was just +ajar, and most distinctly heard her husband say these bold words. + +‘Flintwinch,’ returned Mrs Clennam, in her usual strong low voice, +‘there is a demon of anger in you. Guard against it.’ + +‘I don’t care whether there’s one or a dozen,’ said Mr Flintwinch, +forcibly suggesting in his tone that the higher number was nearer the +mark. ‘If there was fifty, they should all say, None of your nonsense +with me, I won’t take it from you--I’d make ‘em say it, whether they +liked it or not.’ + +‘What have I done, you wrathful man?’ her strong voice asked. + +‘Done?’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Dropped down upon me.’ + +‘If you mean, remonstrated with you--’ + +‘Don’t put words into my mouth that I don’t mean,’ said Jeremiah, +sticking to his figurative expression with tenacious and impenetrable +obstinacy: ‘I mean dropped down upon me.’ + +‘I remonstrated with you,’ she began again, ‘because--’ + +‘I won’t have it!’ cried Jeremiah. ‘You dropped down upon me.’ + +‘I dropped down upon you, then, you ill-conditioned man,’ (Jeremiah +chuckled at having forced her to adopt his phrase,) ‘for having been +needlessly significant to Arthur that morning. I have a right to +complain of it as almost a breach of confidence. You did not mean it--’ + +‘I won’t have it!’ interposed the contradictory Jeremiah, flinging back +the concession. ‘I did mean it.’ + +‘I suppose I must leave you to speak in soliloquy if you choose,’ she +replied, after a pause that seemed an angry one. ‘It is useless my +addressing myself to a rash and headstrong old man who has a set purpose +not to hear me.’ + +‘Now, I won’t take that from you either,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I have no such +purpose. I have told you I did mean it. Do you wish to know why I meant +it, you rash and headstrong old woman?’ + +‘After all, you only restore me my own words,’ she said, struggling with +her indignation. ‘Yes.’ + +‘This is why, then. Because you hadn’t cleared his father to him, and +you ought to have done it. Because, before you went into any tantrum +about yourself, who are--’ + +‘Hold there, Flintwinch!’ she cried out in a changed voice: ‘you may go +a word too far.’ + +The old man seemed to think so. There was another pause, and he had +altered his position in the room, when he spoke again more mildly: + +‘I was going to tell you why it was. Because, before you took your own +part, I thought you ought to have taken the part of Arthur’s father. +Arthur’s father! I had no particular love for Arthur’s father. I served +Arthur’s father’s uncle, in this house, when Arthur’s father was not +much above me--was poorer as far as his pocket went--and when his uncle +might as soon have left me his heir as have left him. He starved in the +parlour, and I starved in the kitchen; that was the principal difference +in our positions; there was not much more than a flight of breakneck +stairs between us. I never took to him in those times; I don’t know that +I ever took to him greatly at any time. He was an undecided, irresolute +chap, who had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he +was young. And when he brought you home here, the wife his uncle +had named for him, I didn’t need to look at you twice (you were a +good-looking woman at that time) to know who’d be master. You have stood +of your own strength ever since. Stand of your own strength now. Don’t +lean against the dead.’ + +‘I do _not_--as you call it--lean against the dead.’ + +‘But you had a mind to do it, if I had submitted,’ growled Jeremiah, +‘and that’s why you drop down upon me. You can’t forget that I didn’t +submit. I suppose you are astonished that I should consider it worth my +while to have justice done to Arthur’s father? Hey? It doesn’t matter +whether you answer or not, because I know you are, and you know you are. +Come, then, I’ll tell you how it is. I may be a bit of an oddity in +point of temper, but this is my temper--I can’t let anybody have +entirely their own way. You are a determined woman, and a clever woman; +and when you see your purpose before you, nothing will turn you from it. +Who knows that better than I do?’ + +‘Nothing will turn me from it, Flintwinch, when I have justified it to +myself. Add that.’ + +‘Justified it to yourself? I said you were the most determined woman on +the face of the earth (or I meant to say so), and if you are determined +to justify any object you entertain, of course you’ll do it.’ + +‘Man! I justify myself by the authority of these Books,’ she cried, with +stern emphasis, and appearing from the sound that followed to strike the +dead-weight of her arm upon the table. + +‘Never mind that,’ returned Jeremiah calmly, ‘we won’t enter into that +question at present. However that may be, you carry out your purposes, +and you make everything go down before them. Now, I won’t go down before +them. I have been faithful to you, and useful to you, and I am attached +to you. But I can’t consent, and I won’t consent, and I never did +consent, and I never will consent to be lost in you. Swallow up +everybody else, and welcome. The peculiarity of my temper is, ma’am, +that I won’t be swallowed up alive.’ + +Perhaps this had originally been the mainspring of the understanding +between them. Descrying thus much of force of character in Mr +Flintwinch, perhaps Mrs Clennam had deemed alliance with him worth her +while. + +‘Enough and more than enough of the subject,’ said she gloomily. + +‘Unless you drop down upon me again,’ returned the persistent +Flintwinch, ‘and then you must expect to hear of it again.’ + +Mistress Affery dreamed that the figure of her lord here began walking +up and down the room, as if to cool his spleen, and that she ran away; +but that, as he did not issue forth when she had stood listening and +trembling in the shadowy hall a little time, she crept up-stairs again, +impelled as before by ghosts and curiosity, and once more cowered +outside the door. + +‘Please to light the candle, Flintwinch,’ Mrs Clennam was saying, +apparently wishing to draw him back into their usual tone. ‘It is nearly +time for tea. Little Dorrit is coming, and will find me in the dark.’ + +Mr Flintwinch lighted the candle briskly, and said as he put it down +upon the table: + +‘What are you going to do with Little Dorrit? Is she to come to work +here for ever? To come to tea here for ever? To come backwards and +forwards here, in the same way, for ever?’ + +‘How can you talk about “for ever” to a maimed creature like me? Are we +not all cut down like the grass of the field, and was not I shorn by the +scythe many years ago: since when I have been lying here, waiting to be +gathered into the barn?’ + +‘Ay, ay! But since you have been lying here--not near dead--nothing like +it--numbers of children and young people, blooming women, strong men, +and what not, have been cut down and carried; and still here are you, +you see, not much changed after all. Your time and mine may be a long +one yet. When I say for ever, I mean (though I am not poetical) through +all our time.’ Mr Flintwinch gave this explanation with great calmness, +and calmly waited for an answer. + +‘So long as Little Dorrit is quiet and industrious, and stands in need +of the slight help I can give her, and deserves it; so long, I suppose, +unless she withdraws of her own act, she will continue to come here, I +being spared.’ + +‘Nothing more than that?’ said Flintwinch, stroking his mouth and chin. + +‘What should there be more than that! What could there be more than +that!’ she ejaculated in her sternly wondering way. + +Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, that, for the space of a minute or two, they +remained looking at each other with the candle between them, and +that she somehow derived an impression that they looked at each other +fixedly. + +‘Do you happen to know, Mrs Clennam,’ Affery’s liege lord then demanded +in a much lower voice, and with an amount of expression that seemed +quite out of proportion to the simple purpose of his words, ‘where she +lives?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Would you--now, would you like to know?’ said Jeremiah with a pounce as +if he had sprung upon her. + +‘If I cared to know, I should know already. Could I not have asked her +any day?’ + +‘Then you don’t care to know?’ + +‘I do not.’ + +Mr Flintwinch, having expelled a long significant breath said, with his +former emphasis, ‘For I have accidentally--mind!--found out.’ + +‘Wherever she lives,’ said Mrs Clennam, speaking in one unmodulated hard +voice, and separating her words as distinctly as if she were reading +them off from separate bits of metal that she took up one by one, ‘she +has made a secret of it, and she shall always keep her secret from me.’ + +‘After all, perhaps you would rather not have known the fact, any how?’ +said Jeremiah; and he said it with a twist, as if his words had come out +of him in his own wry shape. + +‘Flintwinch,’ said his mistress and partner, flashing into a sudden +energy that made Affery start, ‘why do you goad me? Look round this +room. If it is any compensation for my long confinement within these +narrow limits--not that I complain of being afflicted; you know I never +complain of that--if it is any compensation to me for long confinement +to this room, that while I am shut up from all pleasant change I am also +shut up from the knowledge of some things that I may prefer to avoid +knowing, why should you, of all men, grudge me that belief?’ + +‘I don’t grudge it to you,’ returned Jeremiah. + +‘Then say no more. Say no more. Let Little Dorrit keep her secret from +me, and do you keep it from me also. Let her come and go, unobserved and +unquestioned. Let me suffer, and let me have what alleviation belongs to +my condition. Is it so much, that you torment me like an evil spirit?’ + +‘I asked you a question. That’s all.’ + +‘I have answered it. So, say no more. Say no more.’ Here the sound of +the wheeled chair was heard upon the floor, and Affery’s bell rang with +a hasty jerk. + +More afraid of her husband at the moment than of the mysterious sound in +the kitchen, Affery crept away as lightly and as quickly as she could, +descended the kitchen stairs almost as rapidly as she had ascended them, +resumed her seat before the fire, tucked up her skirt again, and finally +threw her apron over her head. Then the bell rang once more, and then +once more, and then kept on ringing; in despite of which importunate +summons, Affery still sat behind her apron, recovering her breath. + +At last Mr Flintwinch came shuffling down the staircase into the +hall, muttering and calling ‘Affery woman!’ all the way. Affery still +remaining behind her apron, he came stumbling down the kitchen stairs, +candle in hand, sidled up to her, twitched her apron off, and roused +her. + +‘Oh Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, waking. ‘What a start you gave me!’ + +‘What have you been doing, woman?’ inquired Jeremiah. ‘You’ve been rung +for fifty times.’ + +‘Oh Jeremiah,’ said Mistress Affery, ‘I have been a-dreaming!’ + +Reminded of her former achievement in that way, Mr Flintwinch held the +candle to her head, as if he had some idea of lighting her up for the +illumination of the kitchen. + +‘Don’t you know it’s her tea-time?’ he demanded with a vicious grin, and +giving one of the legs of Mistress Affery’s chair a kick. + +‘Jeremiah? Tea-time? I don’t know what’s come to me. But I got such a +dreadful turn, Jeremiah, before I went--off a-dreaming, that I think it +must be that.’ + +‘Yoogh! Sleepy-Head!’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘what are you talking about?’ + +‘Such a strange noise, Jeremiah, and such a curious movement. In the +kitchen here--just here.’ + +Jeremiah held up his light and looked at the blackened ceiling, held +down his light and looked at the damp stone floor, turned round with his +light and looked about at the spotted and blotched walls. + +‘Rats, cats, water, drains,’ said Jeremiah. + +Mistress Affery negatived each with a shake of her head. ‘No, Jeremiah; +I have felt it before. I have felt it up-stairs, and once on the +staircase as I was going from her room to ours in the night--a rustle +and a sort of trembling touch behind me.’ + +‘Affery, my woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch grimly, after advancing his nose +to that lady’s lips as a test for the detection of spirituous liquors, +‘if you don’t get tea pretty quick, old woman, you’ll become sensible +of a rustle and a touch that’ll send you flying to the other end of the +kitchen.’ + +This prediction stimulated Mrs Flintwinch to bestir herself, and to +hasten up-stairs to Mrs Clennam’s chamber. But, for all that, she now +began to entertain a settled conviction that there was something wrong +in the gloomy house. Henceforth, she was never at peace in it after +daylight departed; and never went up or down stairs in the dark without +having her apron over her head, lest she should see something. + +What with these ghostly apprehensions and her singular dreams, Mrs +Flintwinch fell that evening into a haunted state of mind, from which +it may be long before this present narrative descries any trace of her +recovery. In the vagueness and indistinctness of all her new experiences +and perceptions, as everything about her was mysterious to herself she +began to be mysterious to others: and became as difficult to be made out +to anybody’s satisfaction as she found the house and everything in it +difficult to make out to her own. + +She had not yet finished preparing Mrs Clennam’s tea, when the soft +knock came to the door which always announced Little Dorrit. Mistress +Affery looked on at Little Dorrit taking off her homely bonnet in the +hall, and at Mr Flintwinch scraping his jaws and contemplating her in +silence, as expecting some wonderful consequence to ensue which would +frighten her out of her five wits or blow them all three to pieces. + +After tea there came another knock at the door, announcing Arthur. +Mistress Affery went down to let him in, and he said on entering, +‘Affery, I am glad it’s you. I want to ask you a question.’ Affery +immediately replied, ‘For goodness sake don’t ask me nothing, Arthur! I +am frightened out of one half of my life, and dreamed out of the +other. Don’t ask me nothing! I don’t know which is which, or what is +what!’--and immediately started away from him, and came near him no +more. + +Mistress Affery having no taste for reading, and no sufficient light for +needlework in the subdued room, supposing her to have the inclination, +now sat every night in the dimness from which she had momentarily +emerged on the evening of Arthur Clennam’s return, occupied with crowds +of wild speculations and suspicions respecting her mistress and her +husband and the noises in the house. When the ferocious devotional +exercises were engaged in, these speculations would distract Mistress +Affery’s eyes towards the door, as if she expected some dark form to +appear at those propitious moments, and make the party one too many. + +Otherwise, Affery never said or did anything to attract the attention of +the two clever ones towards her in any marked degree, except on certain +occasions, generally at about the quiet hour towards bed-time, when she +would suddenly dart out of her dim corner, and whisper with a face of +terror to Mr Flintwinch, reading the paper near Mrs Clennam’s little +table: + +‘There, Jeremiah! Now! What’s that noise?’ + +Then the noise, if there were any, would have ceased, and Mr Flintwinch +would snarl, turning upon her as if she had cut him down that moment +against his will, ‘Affery, old woman, you shall have a dose, old woman, +such a dose! You have been dreaming again!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 16. Nobody’s Weakness + + +The time being come for the renewal of his acquaintance with the Meagles +family, Clennam, pursuant to contract made between himself and Mr +Meagles within the precincts of Bleeding Heart Yard, turned his face +on a certain Saturday towards Twickenham, where Mr Meagles had a +cottage-residence of his own. The weather being fine and dry, and any +English road abounding in interest for him who had been so long away, +he sent his valise on by the coach, and set out to walk. A walk was in +itself a new enjoyment to him, and one that had rarely diversified his +life afar off. + +He went by Fulham and Putney, for the pleasure of strolling over the +heath. It was bright and shining there; and when he found himself so far +on his road to Twickenham, he found himself a long way on his road to +a number of airier and less substantial destinations. They had risen +before him fast, in the healthful exercise and the pleasant road. It is +not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something. And +he had plenty of unsettled subjects to meditate upon, though he had been +walking to the Land’s End. + +First, there was the subject seldom absent from his mind, the question, +what he was to do henceforth in life; to what occupation he should +devote himself, and in what direction he had best seek it. He was far +from rich, and every day of indecision and inaction made his inheritance +a source of greater anxiety to him. As often as he began to consider how +to increase this inheritance, or to lay it by, so often his misgiving +that there was some one with an unsatisfied claim upon his justice, +returned; and that alone was a subject to outlast the longest walk. +Again, there was the subject of his relations with his mother, which +were now upon an equable and peaceful but never confidential footing, +and whom he saw several times a week. Little Dorrit was a leading and a +constant subject: for the circumstances of his life, united to those of +her own story, presented the little creature to him as the only person +between whom and himself there were ties of innocent reliance on one +hand, and affectionate protection on the other; ties of compassion, +respect, unselfish interest, gratitude, and pity. Thinking of her, and +of the possibility of her father’s release from prison by the unbarring +hand of death--the only change of circumstance he could foresee that +might enable him to be such a friend to her as he wished to be, by +altering her whole manner of life, smoothing her rough road, and +giving her a home--he regarded her, in that perspective, as his adopted +daughter, his poor child of the Marshalsea hushed to rest. If there were +a last subject in his thoughts, and it lay towards Twickenham, its form +was so indefinite that it was little more than the pervading atmosphere +in which these other subjects floated before him. + +He had crossed the heath and was leaving it behind when he gained upon a +figure which had been in advance of him for some time, and which, as +he gained upon it, he thought he knew. He derived this impression +from something in the turn of the head, and in the figure’s action of +consideration, as it went on at a sufficiently sturdy walk. But when +the man--for it was a man’s figure--pushed his hat up at the back of his +head, and stopped to consider some object before him, he knew it to be +Daniel Doyce. + +‘How do you do, Mr Doyce?’ said Clennam, overtaking him. ‘I am glad to +see you again, and in a healthier place than the Circumlocution Office.’ + +‘Ha! Mr Meagles’s friend!’ exclaimed that public criminal, coming out of +some mental combinations he had been making, and offering his hand. ‘I +am glad to see you, sir. Will you excuse me if I forget your name?’ + +‘Readily. It’s not a celebrated name. It’s not Barnacle.’ + +‘No, no,’ said Daniel, laughing. ‘And now I know what it is. It’s +Clennam. How do you do, Mr Clennam?’ + +‘I have some hope,’ said Arthur, as they walked on together, ‘that we +may be going to the same place, Mr Doyce.’ + +‘Meaning Twickenham?’ returned Daniel. ‘I am glad to hear it.’ + +They were soon quite intimate, and lightened the way with a variety of +conversation. The ingenious culprit was a man of great modesty and good +sense; and, though a plain man, had been too much accustomed to combine +what was original and daring in conception with what was patient and +minute in execution, to be by any means an ordinary man. It was at first +difficult to lead him to speak about himself, and he put off Arthur’s +advances in that direction by admitting slightly, oh yes, he had done +this, and he had done that, and such a thing was of his making, and +such another thing was his discovery, but it was his trade, you see, his +trade; until, as he gradually became assured that his companion had a +real interest in his account of himself, he frankly yielded to it. Then +it appeared that he was the son of a north-country blacksmith, and had +originally been apprenticed by his widowed mother to a lock-maker; that +he had ‘struck out a few little things’ at the lock-maker’s, which had +led to his being released from his indentures with a present, which +present had enabled him to gratify his ardent wish to bind himself to +a working engineer, under whom he had laboured hard, learned hard, and +lived hard, seven years. His time being out, he had ‘worked in the shop’ +at weekly wages seven or eight years more; and had then betaken +himself to the banks of the Clyde, where he had studied, and filed, and +hammered, and improved his knowledge, theoretical and practical, for six +or seven years more. There he had had an offer to go to Lyons, which he +had accepted; and from Lyons had been engaged to go to Germany, and in +Germany had had an offer to go to St Petersburg, and there had done very +well indeed--never better. However, he had naturally felt a preference +for his own country, and a wish to gain distinction there, and to do +whatever service he could do, there rather than elsewhere. And so he had +come home. And so at home he had established himself in business, and +had invented and executed, and worked his way on, until, after a dozen +years of constant suit and service, he had been enrolled in the +Great British Legion of Honour, the Legion of the Rebuffed of the +Circumlocution Office, and had been decorated with the Great British +Order of Merit, the Order of the Disorder of the Barnacles and +Stiltstalkings. + +‘It is much to be regretted,’ said Clennam, ‘that you ever turned your +thoughts that way, Mr Doyce.’ + +‘True, sir, true to a certain extent. But what is a man to do? if he +has the misfortune to strike out something serviceable to the nation, +he must follow where it leads him.’ + +‘Hadn’t he better let it go?’ said Clennam. + +‘He can’t do it,’ said Doyce, shaking his head with a thoughtful smile. +‘It’s not put into his head to be buried. It’s put into his head to be +made useful. You hold your life on the condition that to the last you +shall struggle hard for it. Every man holds a discovery on the same +terms.’ + +‘That is to say,’ said Arthur, with a growing admiration of his quiet +companion, ‘you are not finally discouraged even now?’ + +‘I have no right to be, if I am,’ returned the other. ‘The thing is as +true as it ever was.’ + +When they had walked a little way in silence, Clennam, at once to +change the direct point of their conversation and not to change it +too abruptly, asked Mr Doyce if he had any partner in his business to +relieve him of a portion of its anxieties? + +‘No,’ he returned, ‘not at present. I had when I first entered on it, +and a good man he was. But he has been dead some years; and as I could +not easily take to the notion of another when I lost him, I bought +his share for myself and have gone on by myself ever since. And here’s +another thing,’ he said, stopping for a moment with a good-humoured +laugh in his eyes, and laying his closed right hand, with its peculiar +suppleness of thumb, on Clennam’s arm, ‘no inventor can be a man of +business, you know.’ + +‘No?’ said Clennam. + +‘Why, so the men of business say,’ he answered, resuming the walk and +laughing outright. ‘I don’t know why we unfortunate creatures should +be supposed to want common sense, but it is generally taken for granted +that we do. Even the best friend I have in the world, our excellent +friend over yonder,’ said Doyce, nodding towards Twickenham, ‘extends +a sort of protection to me, don’t you know, as a man not quite able to +take care of himself?’ + +Arthur Clennam could not help joining in the good-humoured laugh, for he +recognised the truth of the description. + +‘So I find that I must have a partner who is a man of business and not +guilty of any inventions,’ said Daniel Doyce, taking off his hat to pass +his hand over his forehead, ‘if it’s only in deference to the current +opinion, and to uphold the credit of the Works. I don’t think he’ll find +that I have been very remiss or confused in my way of conducting them; +but that’s for him to say--whoever he is--not for me.’ + +‘You have not chosen him yet, then?’ + +‘No, sir, no. I have only just come to a decision to take one. The fact +is, there’s more to do than there used to be, and the Works are enough +for me as I grow older. What with the books and correspondence, and +foreign journeys for which a Principal is necessary, I can’t do all. I +am going to talk over the best way of negotiating the matter, if I find +a spare half-hour between this and Monday morning, with my--my Nurse and +protector,’ said Doyce, with laughing eyes again. ‘He is a sagacious man +in business, and has had a good apprenticeship to it.’ + +After this, they conversed on different subjects until they arrived at +their journey’s end. A composed and unobtrusive self-sustainment was +noticeable in Daniel Doyce--a calm knowledge that what was true must +remain true, in spite of all the Barnacles in the family ocean, and +would be just the truth, and neither more nor less when even that sea +had run dry--which had a kind of greatness in it, though not of the +official quality. + +As he knew the house well, he conducted Arthur to it by the way that +showed it to the best advantage. It was a charming place (none the worse +for being a little eccentric), on the road by the river, and just what +the residence of the Meagles family ought to be. It stood in a garden, +no doubt as fresh and beautiful in the May of the Year as Pet now was +in the May of her life; and it was defended by a goodly show of handsome +trees and spreading evergreens, as Pet was by Mr and Mrs Meagles. It +was made out of an old brick house, of which a part had been altogether +pulled down, and another part had been changed into the present cottage; +so there was a hale elderly portion, to represent Mr and Mrs Meagles, +and a young picturesque, very pretty portion to represent Pet. There was +even the later addition of a conservatory sheltering itself against it, +uncertain of hue in its deep-stained glass, and in its more transparent +portions flashing to the sun’s rays, now like fire and now like harmless +water drops; which might have stood for Tattycoram. Within view was +the peaceful river and the ferry-boat, to moralise to all the inmates +saying: Young or old, passionate or tranquil, chafing or content, you, +thus runs the current always. Let the heart swell into what discord it +will, thus plays the rippling water on the prow of the ferry-boat ever +the same tune. Year after year, so much allowance for the drifting of +the boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the +rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet, upon this road +that steadily runs away; while you, upon your flowing road of time, are +so capricious and distracted. + +The bell at the gate had scarcely sounded when Mr Meagles came out to +receive them. Mr Meagles had scarcely come out, when Mrs Meagles came +out. Mrs Meagles had scarcely come out, when Pet came out. Pet scarcely +had come out, when Tattycoram came out. Never had visitors a more +hospitable reception. + +‘Here we are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘boxed up, Mr Clennam, within +our own home-limits, as if we were never going to expand--that is, +travel--again. Not like Marseilles, eh? No allonging and marshonging +here!’ + +‘A different kind of beauty, indeed!’ said Clennam, looking about him. + +‘But, Lord bless me!’ cried Mr Meagles, rubbing his hands with a relish, +‘it was an uncommonly pleasant thing being in quarantine, wasn’t it? +Do you know, I have often wished myself back again? We were a capital +party.’ + +This was Mr Meagles’s invariable habit. Always to object to everything +while he was travelling, and always to want to get back to it when he +was not travelling. + +‘If it was summer-time,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘which I wish it was on your +account, and in order that you might see the place at its best, you +would hardly be able to hear yourself speak for birds. Being practical +people, we never allow anybody to scare the birds; and the birds, being +practical people too, come about us in myriads. We are delighted to see +you, Clennam (if you’ll allow me, I shall drop the Mister); I heartily +assure you, we are delighted.’ + +‘I have not had so pleasant a greeting,’ said Clennam--then he recalled +what Little Dorrit had said to him in his own room, and faithfully +added ‘except once--since we last walked to and fro, looking down at the +Mediterranean.’ + +‘Ah!’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘Something like a look out, _that_ was, wasn’t +it? I don’t want a military government, but I shouldn’t mind a little +allonging and marshonging--just a dash of it--in this neighbourhood +sometimes. It’s Devilish still.’ + +Bestowing this eulogium on the retired character of his retreat with a +dubious shake of the head, Mr Meagles led the way into the house. It was +just large enough, and no more; was as pretty within as it was without, +and was perfectly well-arranged and comfortable. Some traces of the +migratory habits of the family were to be observed in the covered frames +and furniture, and wrapped-up hangings; but it was easy to see that it +was one of Mr Meagles’s whims to have the cottage always kept, in their +absence, as if they were always coming back the day after to-morrow. Of +articles collected on his various expeditions, there was such a vast +miscellany that it was like the dwelling of an amiable Corsair. There +were antiquities from Central Italy, made by the best modern houses in +that department of industry; bits of mummy from Egypt (and perhaps +Birmingham); model gondolas from Venice; model villages from +Switzerland; morsels of tesselated pavement from Herculaneum and +Pompeii, like petrified minced veal; ashes out of tombs, and lava out of +Vesuvius; Spanish fans, Spezzian straw hats, Moorish slippers, Tuscan +hairpins, Carrara sculpture, Trastaverini scarves, Genoese velvets and +filigree, Neapolitan coral, Roman cameos, Geneva jewellery, Arab +lanterns, rosaries blest all round by the Pope himself, and an infinite +variety of lumber. There were views, like and unlike, of a multitude of +places; and there was one little picture-room devoted to a few of the +regular sticky old Saints, with sinews like whipcord, hair like +Neptune’s, wrinkles like tattooing, and such coats of varnish that every +holy personage served for a fly-trap, and became what is now called in +the vulgar tongue a Catch-em-alive O. Of these pictorial acquisitions Mr +Meagles spoke in the usual manner. He was no judge, he said, except of +what pleased himself; he had picked them up, dirt-cheap, and people +_had_ considered them rather fine. One man, who at any rate ought to +know something of the subject, had declared that ‘Sage, Reading’ (a +specially oily old gentleman in a blanket, with a swan’s-down tippet for +a beard, and a web of cracks all over him like rich pie-crust), to be a +fine Guercino. As for Sebastian del Piombo there, you would judge for +yourself; if it were not his later manner, the question was, Who was it? +Titian, that might or might not be--perhaps he had only touched it. +Daniel Doyce said perhaps he hadn’t touched it, but Mr Meagles rather +declined to overhear the remark. + +When he had shown all his spoils, Mr Meagles took them into his own +snug room overlooking the lawn, which was fitted up in part like a +dressing-room and in part like an office, and in which, upon a kind of +counter-desk, were a pair of brass scales for weighing gold, and a scoop +for shovelling out money. + +‘Here they are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I stood behind these two +articles five-and-thirty years running, when I no more thought of +gadding about than I now think of--staying at home. When I left the Bank +for good, I asked for them, and brought them away with me. I mention it +at once, or you might suppose that I sit in my counting-house (as Pet +says I do), like the king in the poem of the four-and-twenty blackbirds, +counting out my money.’ + +Clennam’s eyes had strayed to a natural picture on the wall, of two +pretty little girls with their arms entwined. ‘Yes, Clennam,’ said +Mr Meagles, in a lower voice. ‘There they both are. It was taken some +seventeen years ago. As I often say to Mother, they were babies then.’ + +‘Their names?’ said Arthur. + +‘Ah, to be sure! You have never heard any name but Pet. Pet’s name is +Minnie; her sister’s Lillie.’ + +‘Should you have known, Mr Clennam, that one of them was meant for me?’ +asked Pet herself, now standing in the doorway. + +‘I might have thought that both of them were meant for you, both +are still so like you. Indeed,’ said Clennam, glancing from the fair +original to the picture and back, ‘I cannot even now say which is not +your portrait.’ + +‘D’ye hear that, Mother?’ cried Mr Meagles to his wife, who had followed +her daughter. ‘It’s always the same, Clennam; nobody can decide. The +child to your left is Pet.’ + +The picture happened to be near a looking-glass. As Arthur looked at +it again, he saw, by the reflection of the mirror, Tattycoram stop in +passing outside the door, listen to what was going on, and pass away +with an angry and contemptuous frown upon her face, that changed its +beauty into ugliness. + +‘But come!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘You have had a long walk, and will be glad +to get your boots off. As to Daniel here, I suppose he’d never think of +taking _his_ boots off, unless we showed him a boot-jack.’ + +‘Why not?’ asked Daniel, with a significant smile at Clennam. + +‘Oh! You have so many things to think about,’ returned Mr Meagles, +clapping him on the shoulder, as if his weakness must not be left to +itself on any account. ‘Figures, and wheels, and cogs, and levers, and +screws, and cylinders, and a thousand things.’ + +‘In my calling,’ said Daniel, amused, ‘the greater usually includes the +less. But never mind, never mind! Whatever pleases you, pleases me.’ + +Clennam could not help speculating, as he seated himself in his room +by the fire, whether there might be in the breast of this honest, +affectionate, and cordial Mr Meagles, any microscopic portion of +the mustard-seed that had sprung up into the great tree of the +Circumlocution Office. His curious sense of a general superiority to +Daniel Doyce, which seemed to be founded, not so much on anything +in Doyce’s personal character as on the mere fact of his being an +originator and a man out of the beaten track of other men, suggested the +idea. It might have occupied him until he went down to dinner an hour +afterwards, if he had not had another question to consider, which +had been in his mind so long ago as before he was in quarantine at +Marseilles, and which had now returned to it, and was very urgent with +it. No less a question than this: Whether he should allow himself to +fall in love with Pet? + +He was twice her age. (He changed the leg he had crossed over the other, +and tried the calculation again, but could not bring out the total at +less.) He was twice her age. Well! He was young in appearance, young +in health and strength, young in heart. A man was certainly not old +at forty; and many men were not in circumstances to marry, or did not +marry, until they had attained that time of life. On the other hand, the +question was, not what he thought of the point, but what she thought of +it. + +He believed that Mr Meagles was disposed to entertain a ripe regard for +him, and he knew that he had a sincere regard for Mr Meagles and his +good wife. He could foresee that to relinquish this beautiful only +child, of whom they were so fond, to any husband, would be a trial +of their love which perhaps they never yet had had the fortitude to +contemplate. But the more beautiful and winning and charming she, the +nearer they must always be to the necessity of approaching it. And why +not in his favour, as well as in another’s? + +When he had got so far, it came again into his head that the question +was, not what they thought of it, but what she thought of it. + +Arthur Clennam was a retiring man, with a sense of many deficiencies; +and he so exalted the merits of the beautiful Minnie in his mind, and +depressed his own, that when he pinned himself to this point, his hopes +began to fail him. He came to the final resolution, as he made himself +ready for dinner, that he would not allow himself to fall in love with +Pet. + +There were only five, at a round table, and it was very pleasant indeed. +They had so many places and people to recall, and they were all so easy +and cheerful together (Daniel Doyce either sitting out like an amused +spectator at cards, or coming in with some shrewd little experiences of +his own, when it happened to be to the purpose), that they might have +been together twenty times, and not have known so much of one another. + +‘And Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, after they had recalled a number of +fellow-travellers. ‘Has anybody seen Miss Wade?’ + +‘I have,’ said Tattycoram. + +She had brought a little mantle which her young mistress had sent for, +and was bending over her, putting it on, when she lifted up her dark +eyes and made this unexpected answer. + +‘Tatty!’ her young mistress exclaimed. ‘You seen Miss Wade?--where?’ + +‘Here, miss,’ said Tattycoram. + +‘How?’ + +An impatient glance from Tattycoram seemed, as Clennam saw it, to answer +‘With my eyes!’ But her only answer in words was: ‘I met her near the +church.’ + +‘What was she doing there I wonder!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not going to it, +I should think.’ + +‘She had written to me first,’ said Tattycoram. + +‘Oh, Tatty!’ murmured her mistress, ‘take your hands away. I feel as if +some one else was touching me!’ + +She said it in a quick involuntary way, but half playfully, and not more +petulantly or disagreeably than a favourite child might have done, who +laughed next moment. Tattycoram set her full red lips together, and +crossed her arms upon her bosom. + +‘Did you wish to know, sir,’ she said, looking at Mr Meagles, ‘what Miss +Wade wrote to me about?’ + +‘Well, Tattycoram,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘since you ask the question, +and we are all friends here, perhaps you may as well mention it, if you +are so inclined.’ + +‘She knew, when we were travelling, where you lived,’ said Tattycoram, +‘and she had seen me not quite--not quite--’ + +‘Not quite in a good temper, Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles, +shaking his head at the dark eyes with a quiet caution. ‘Take a little +time--count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’ + +She pressed her lips together again, and took a long deep breath. + +‘So she wrote to me to say that if I ever felt myself hurt,’ she looked +down at her young mistress, ‘or found myself worried,’ she looked down +at her again, ‘I might go to her, and be considerately treated. I was +to think of it, and could speak to her by the church. So I went there to +thank her.’ + +‘Tatty,’ said her young mistress, putting her hand up over her shoulder +that the other might take it, ‘Miss Wade almost frightened me when we +parted, and I scarcely like to think of her just now as having been so +near me without my knowing it. Tatty dear!’ + +Tatty stood for a moment, immovable. + +‘Hey?’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Count another five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’ + +She might have counted a dozen, when she bent and put her lips to the +caressing hand. It patted her cheek, as it touched the owner’s beautiful +curls, and Tattycoram went away. + +‘Now there,’ said Mr Meagles softly, as he gave a turn to the +dumb-waiter on his right hand to twirl the sugar towards himself. +‘There’s a girl who might be lost and ruined, if she wasn’t among +practical people. Mother and I know, solely from being practical, that +there are times when that girl’s whole nature seems to roughen itself +against seeing us so bound up in Pet. No father and mother were bound +up in her, poor soul. I don’t like to think of the way in which that +unfortunate child, with all that passion and protest in her, feels when +she hears the Fifth Commandment on a Sunday. I am always inclined to +call out, Church, Count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’ + +Besides his dumb-waiter, Mr Meagles had two other not dumb waiters in +the persons of two parlour-maids with rosy faces and bright eyes, who +were a highly ornamental part of the table decoration. ‘And why not, you +see?’ said Mr Meagles on this head. ‘As I always say to Mother, why +not have something pretty to look at, if you have anything at all?’ + +A certain Mrs Tickit, who was Cook and Housekeeper when the family were +at home, and Housekeeper only when the family were away, completed the +establishment. Mr Meagles regretted that the nature of the duties in +which she was engaged, rendered Mrs Tickit unpresentable at present, +but hoped to introduce her to the new visitor to-morrow. She was an +important part of the Cottage, he said, and all his friends knew her. +That was her picture up in the corner. When they went away, she always +put on the silk-gown and the jet-black row of curls represented in that +portrait (her hair was reddish-grey in the kitchen), established herself +in the breakfast-room, put her spectacles between two particular leaves +of Doctor Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, and sat looking over the blind all +day until they came back again. It was supposed that no persuasion could +be invented which would induce Mrs Tickit to abandon her post at the +blind, however long their absence, or to dispense with the attendance +of Dr Buchan; the lucubrations of which learned practitioner, Mr Meagles +implicitly believed she had never yet consulted to the extent of one +word in her life. + +In the evening they played an old-fashioned rubber; and Pet sat looking +over her father’s hand, or singing to herself by fits and starts at the +piano. She was a spoilt child; but how could she be otherwise? Who could +be much with so pliable and beautiful a creature, and not yield to her +endearing influence? Who could pass an evening in the house, and not +love her for the grace and charm of her very presence in the room? This +was Clennam’s reflection, notwithstanding the final conclusion at which +he had arrived up-stairs. + +In making it, he revoked. ‘Why, what are you thinking of, my good sir?’ +asked the astonished Mr Meagles, who was his partner. ‘I beg your +pardon. Nothing,’ returned Clennam. ‘Think of something, next time; +that’s a dear fellow,’ said Mr Meagles. Pet laughingly believed he had +been thinking of Miss Wade. ‘Why of Miss Wade, Pet?’ asked her father. +‘Why, indeed!’ said Arthur Clennam. Pet coloured a little, and went to +the piano again. + +As they broke up for the night, Arthur overheard Doyce ask his host if +he could give him half an hour’s conversation before breakfast in the +morning? The host replying willingly, Arthur lingered behind a moment, +having his own word to add to that topic. + +‘Mr Meagles,’ he said, on their being left alone, ‘do you remember when +you advised me to go straight to London?’ + +‘Perfectly well.’ + +‘And when you gave me some other good advice which I needed at that +time?’ + +‘I won’t say what it was worth,’ answered Mr Meagles: ‘but of course I +remember our being very pleasant and confidential together.’ + +‘I have acted on your advice; and having disembarrassed myself of an +occupation that was painful to me for many reasons, wish to devote +myself and what means I have, to another pursuit.’ + +‘Right! You can’t do it too soon,’ said Mr Meagles. + +‘Now, as I came down to-day, I found that your friend, Mr Doyce, is +looking for a partner in his business--not a partner in his mechanical +knowledge, but in the ways and means of turning the business arising +from it to the best account.’ + +‘Just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with his hands in his pockets, and with the +old business expression of face that had belonged to the scales and +scoop. + +‘Mr Doyce mentioned incidentally, in the course of our conversation, +that he was going to take your valuable advice on the subject of finding +such a partner. If you should think our views and opportunities at all +likely to coincide, perhaps you will let him know my available position. +I speak, of course, in ignorance of the details, and they may be +unsuitable on both sides.’ + +‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Meagles, with the caution belonging to the +scales and scoop. + +‘But they will be a question of figures and accounts--’ + +‘Just so, just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with arithmetical solidity +belonging to the scales and scoop. + +‘--And I shall be glad to enter into the subject, provided Mr Doyce +responds, and you think well of it. If you will at present, therefore, +allow me to place it in your hands, you will much oblige me.’ + +‘Clennam, I accept the trust with readiness,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And +without anticipating any of the points which you, as a man of business, +have of course reserved, I am free to say to you that I think something +may come of this. Of one thing you may be perfectly certain. Daniel is +an honest man.’ + +‘I am so sure of it that I have promptly made up my mind to speak to +you.’ + +‘You must guide him, you know; you must steer him; you must direct him; +he is one of a crotchety sort,’ said Mr Meagles, evidently meaning +nothing more than that he did new things and went new ways; ‘but he is +as honest as the sun, and so good night!’ + +Clennam went back to his room, sat down again before his fire, and made +up his mind that he was glad he had resolved not to fall in love with +Pet. She was so beautiful, so amiable, so apt to receive any true +impression given to her gentle nature and her innocent heart, and make +the man who should be so happy as to communicate it, the most fortunate +and enviable of all men, that he was very glad indeed he had come to +that conclusion. + +But, as this might have been a reason for coming to the opposite +conclusion, he followed out the theme again a little way in his mind; to +justify himself, perhaps. + +‘Suppose that a man,’ so his thoughts ran, ‘who had been of age some +twenty years or so; who was a diffident man, from the circumstances of +his youth; who was rather a grave man, from the tenor of his life; who +knew himself to be deficient in many little engaging qualities which +he admired in others, from having been long in a distant region, with +nothing softening near him; who had no kind sisters to present to her; +who had no congenial home to make her known in; who was a stranger in +the land; who had not a fortune to compensate, in any measure, for +these defects; who had nothing in his favour but his honest love and his +general wish to do right--suppose such a man were to come to this house, +and were to yield to the captivation of this charming girl, and were to +persuade himself that he could hope to win her; what a weakness it would +be!’ + +He softly opened his window, and looked out upon the serene river. Year +after year so much allowance for the drifting of the ferry-boat, so +many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the +lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet. + +Why should he be vexed or sore at heart? It was not his weakness that he +had imagined. It was nobody’s, nobody’s within his knowledge; why should +it trouble him? And yet it did trouble him. And he thought--who has not +thought for a moment, sometimes?--that it might be better to flow away +monotonously, like the river, and to compound for its insensibility to +happiness with its insensibility to pain. + + + + +CHAPTER 17. Nobody’s Rival + + +Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur walked out to look about him. +As the morning was fine and he had an hour on his hands, he crossed the +river by the ferry, and strolled along a footpath through some meadows. +When he came back to the towing-path, he found the ferry-boat on the +opposite side, and a gentleman hailing it and waiting to be taken over. + +This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly +and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As +Arthur came over the stile and down to the water’s edge, the lounger +glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly +tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his +way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them +into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty +in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar +impression from a man’s manner of doing some very little thing: plucking +a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient +object. + +The gentleman’s thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he +took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively, +and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the +river on receiving his master’s sign. The ferry-boat came over, however, +without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him +by the collar and walked him into it. + +‘Not this morning,’ he said to the dog. ‘You won’t do for ladies’ +company, dripping wet. Lie down.’ + +Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat. +The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands +in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and +dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and +went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them. + +The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little +lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the +bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall. + +‘I heard no dog last night,’ thought Clennam. The gate was opened by +one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the +man. + +‘Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,’ said the blushing portress, as +they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the +dog, ‘Mr Clennam, sir,’ and tripped away. + +‘Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,’ said +the man. Upon which the dog became mute. ‘Allow me to introduce +myself--Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well +this morning!’ + +The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought, +that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love +with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan. + +‘It’s new to you, I believe?’ said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled +the place. + +‘Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.’ + +‘Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in +the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have +seen it then.’ + +But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him +in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility. + +‘I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during +the last three years, and it’s--a Paradise.’ + +It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise +resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only +called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her +out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him! + +And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog, +and how the dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her +face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute +happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was +any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look +like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like +this; but still--when had he ever known her do it! + +He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked +about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put +his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She +had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far, +far, too much--that is to say, supposing there had been any third person +looking on who loved her. + +She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his +and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take +his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection. +No, he knew he was too safe. + +There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles’s good-humoured face when they +all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable +but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch +of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was +unobserved by Clennam. + +‘Well, Gowan,’ said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; ‘how goes the +world with you this morning?’ + +‘Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything +of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my +present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.’ Then he told +how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together. + +‘Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?’ said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became +attentive.) + +‘My mother is quite well, thank you.’ (Clennam became inattentive.) ‘I +have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party +to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I +couldn’t very well get out of it,’ he explained, turning to the latter. +‘The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well +connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.’ + +‘Who _is_ the young fellow?’ asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency. + +‘He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle’s son, Clarence Barnacle, who +is in his father’s Department. I can at least guarantee that the river +shall not suffer from his visit. He won’t set it on fire.’ + +‘Aye, aye?’ said Meagles. ‘A Barnacle is he? _We_ know something of that +family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let +me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His +Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who +was the second daughter by the third marriage--no! There I am wrong! +That was Lady Seraphina--Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the +second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the +Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow’s +father married a Stiltstalking and _his_ father married his cousin who +was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle, +married a Joddleby.--I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want +to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.’ + +‘That’s easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.’ + +‘Nephew--to--Lord--Decimus,’ Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his +eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full +flavour of the genealogical tree. ‘By George, you are right, Gowan. So +he is.’ + +‘Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.’ + +‘But stop a bit!’ said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh +discovery. ‘Then on the mother’s side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great +aunt.’ + +‘Of course she is.’ + +‘Aye, aye, aye?’ said Mr Meagles with much interest. ‘Indeed, indeed? We +shall be glad to see him. We’ll entertain him as well as we can, in our +humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.’ + +In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great +harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst +out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his +good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street +to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long +subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it +beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word. + +‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Gowan, to conclude the subject. +‘Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows +that ever lived!’ + +It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this +Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a +knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging, +the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived. +The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the +premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: ‘I claim to be +always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man’s case, and +posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do +this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most +worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition +to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than +you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.’ The +effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed +to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower +it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only +disagreeable or dangerous feature. + +It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction +as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never +seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again; +and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely +face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog, +it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it; +and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of +the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw +tears rise to Mr Meagles’s eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was +either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not +insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more +delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much +she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the +rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and +took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in +the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in +her father’s room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest +tenderness, and weeping on her father’s shoulder. + +The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the +house, look over Mr Meagles’s collection, and beguile the time with +conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it +in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by +profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight, +careless, amateur way with him--a perceptible limp, both in his devotion +to art and his attainments--which Clennam could scarcely understand. + +He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out +of window. + +‘You know Mr Gowan?’ he said in a low voice. + +‘I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.’ + +‘An artist, I infer from what he says?’ + +‘A sort of a one,’ said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone. + +‘What sort of a one?’ asked Clennam, with a smile. + +‘Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,’ +said Doyce, ‘and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.’ + +Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very +distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan, +originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a +Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at +his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the +last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the +Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of +two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in +power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at +Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy +of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her +son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that +very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been +difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to +be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that +exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the +cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become +a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way, +and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not +provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that +several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that +portfolios of his performances had been handed about o’ nights, and +declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect +phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had +asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with +his own magnificent gravity, ‘Do you know, there appears to me to +be really immense merit in that work?’ and, in short, that people of +condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But, +somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against +it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus’s +picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except +their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and +by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that +worn-out old coffin which never was Mahomet’s nor anybody else’s, hung +midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had +left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn’t reach. + +Such was the substance of Clennam’s discoveries concerning him, made +that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards. + +About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended +by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had +cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty +in their stead two dingy men. Young Barnacle was in the last +degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured +involuntarily, ‘Look here! upon my soul, you know!’ before his presence +of mind returned. + +Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking +his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of +his general debility: + +‘I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?’ + +‘A friend of our host’s. None of mine.’ + +‘He’s a most ferocious Radical, you know,’ said Young Barnacle. + +‘Is he? How do you know?’ + +‘Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most +tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to +that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to +our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a +fellow.’ + +‘What did he want?’ + +‘Ecod, sir,’ returned Young Barnacle, ‘he said he wanted to know, you +know! Pervaded our Department--without an appointment--and said he +wanted to know!’ + +The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied +this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for +the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely +solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct +Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles’s right +hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there. + +All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the +dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone--and +all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at +any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion, +and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual +necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass +to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles’s plate, to +hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully +restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his +frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick +in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he +looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes, +forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the +dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his +difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at +Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was +clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device, +round to that point of wanting to know, you know. + +It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much +enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young +Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full +fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this +small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole +family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities +paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after +something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange +peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another +such case! + +At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young +Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan +went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken +the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam +had been a little reserved since breakfast--that is to say, would have +been, if he had loved her. + +When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the +chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to +ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After +settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan--who +would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival. + +‘Those are not good prospects for a painter,’ said Clennam. + +‘No,’ returned Doyce. + +Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his +pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet +perception in his face that they were going to say something more. + +‘I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after +he came this morning?’ said Clennam. + +‘Yes,’ returned Doyce. + +‘But not his daughter?’ said Clennam. + +‘No,’ said Doyce. + +There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of +his candle, slowly resumed: + +‘The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of +separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like +him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say +you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.’ + +‘There--’ Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped. + +‘Yes, you have taken cold,’ said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at +him. + +‘--There is an engagement between them, of course?’ said Clennam airily. + +‘No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited on the +gentleman’s part, but none has been made. Since their recent return, +our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie +would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them, +and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even +beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr +Gowan, I have no doubt we see.’ + +‘Ah! We see enough!’ cried Arthur. + +Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a +mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation, and who sought to infuse +some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had +been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of +a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind, +without Clennam’s hearing it too? + +The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and +dripped among the evergreens and the leafless branches of the trees. The +rain fell heavily, drearily. It was a night of tears. + +If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he +had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded +himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his +hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if +he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been, +that night, unutterably miserable. As it was-- + +As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily. + + + + +CHAPTER 18. Little Dorrit’s Lover + + +Little Dorrit had not attained her twenty-second birthday without +finding a lover. Even in the shallow Marshalsea, the ever young Archer +shot off a few featherless arrows now and then from a mouldy bow, and +winged a Collegian or two. + +Little Dorrit’s lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the +sentimental son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of time, +to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had from his +early youth familiarised him with the duties of his office, and with an +ambition to retain the prison-lock in the family. While the succession +was yet in abeyance, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a snug +tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane (his father being +a non-resident turnkey), which could usually command a neat connection +within the College walls. + +Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont to sit in her +little arm-chair by the high Lodge-fender, Young John (family name, +Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with admiring wonder. +When he had played with her in the yard, his favourite game had been to +counterfeit locking her up in corners, and to counterfeit letting +her out for real kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through the +keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he had divers times set down +his father’s dinner, or supper, to get on as it might on the outer side +thereof, while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint of peeping at her +through that airy perspective. + +If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less penetrable +days of his boyhood, when youth is prone to wear its boots unlaced and +is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung it up +again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his hand had inscribed in chalk +on that part of the wall which fronted her lodgings, on the occasion of +her birthday, ‘Welcome sweet nursling of the Fairies!’ At twenty-three, +the same hand falteringly presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of +the Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul. + +Young John was small of stature, with rather weak legs and very weak +light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep through +the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the other, as if +it couldn’t collect itself. Young John was gentle likewise. But he was +great of soul. Poetical, expansive, faithful. + +Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine, Young +John had considered the object of his attachment in all its lights and +shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had descried, without +self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things prospered, and they were +united. She, the child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There +was a fitness in that. Say he became a resident turnkey. She would +officially succeed to the chamber she had rented so long. There was a +beautiful propriety in that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on +tip-toe; and, with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary or so, +would become a very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then, +being all in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in +the lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would +be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances only known to them by +hearsay, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying with them +on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbour above, and the +Lodge below; they would glide down the stream of time, in pastoral +domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes by finishing the +picture with a tombstone in the adjoining churchyard, close against the +prison wall, bearing the following touching inscription: ‘Sacred to +the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years +Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring Marshalsea, Who departed this life, +universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand +eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly +beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who +survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last +in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There +she died.’ + +The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son’s attachment--indeed +it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a state of mind +that had impelled him to conduct himself with irascibility towards the +customers, and damage the business--but they, in their turns, had worked +it out to desirable conclusions. Mrs Chivery, a prudent woman, had +desired her husband to take notice that their John’s prospects of the +Lock would certainly be strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, +who had herself a kind of claim upon the College and was much respected +there. Mrs Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on +the one hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other +hand, Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery’s) sentiment +was, that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother and +not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, desired +her husband to recollect that their John had never been strong, and +that his love had fretted and worrited him enough as it was, without +his being driven to do himself a mischief, as nobody couldn’t say +he wouldn’t be if he was crossed. These arguments had so powerfully +influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of few words, that he +had on sundry Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed ‘a lucky +touch,’ signifying that he considered such commendation of him to Good +Fortune, preparatory to his that day declaring his passion and +becoming triumphant. But Young John had never taken courage to make +the declaration; and it was principally on these occasions that he had +returned excited to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers. + +In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the last +person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it, and attained +a sort of station by making a peg of it on which to air the miserably +ragged old fiction of the family gentility. Her sister asserted the +family gentility by flouting the poor swain as he loitered about the +prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and +his own, by coming out in the character of the aristocratic brother, and +loftily swaggering in the little skittle ground respecting seizures by +the scruff of the neck, which there were looming probabilities of some +gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These +were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account. +No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about +the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low. But he +took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and sometimes +even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor (who was +proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society. +With no less readiness and condescension did he receive attentions from +Chivery Senior, who always relinquished his arm-chair and newspaper to +him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his spells of duty; and +who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would like at any time after +dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and take a look at the +street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself +of this latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish for +it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at +times, ‘Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive man and very +respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate perception +of one’s position here. A very well conducted family indeed, the +Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.’ + +The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence. +He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the +miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront from _her_ +brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most +pacific disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against +that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that +his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not +incompatible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate +that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune--a gentleman of +a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him--he deeply +honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young +lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the past. It was +an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit’s worth and difference from +all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for +being simply what she was. + +The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried +out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of +the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a +retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business +was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it +maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like +a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt. + +From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of +baked viands, Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not +empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in +a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his +figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a +chaste neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of +lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with +side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of +state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that +in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid +gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory +hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in +this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to +Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which +way the wind blew. + +The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that +Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of +receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little +Dorrit’s lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his +knuckles at the Father’s door. + +‘Come in, come in!’ said a gracious voice. The Father’s voice, her +father’s, the Marshalsea’s father’s. He was seated in his black velvet +cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the +table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his +Court. + +‘Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!’ + +‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.’ + +‘Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.’ + +‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of--’ + +‘Eh?’ The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this +point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind. + +‘--A few cigars, sir.’ + +‘Oh!’ (For the moment, excessively surprised.) ‘Thank you, Young John, +thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too--No? Well then, I will say +no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young +John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.’ + +‘Thank you, sir, I am sure--Miss;’ here Young John turned the great hat +round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage; +‘Miss Amy quite well, sir?’ + +‘Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.’ + +‘Indeed, sir?’ + +‘Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a +good deal. But at their time of life, it’s natural, John.’ + +‘Very much so, I am sure, sir.’ + +‘An airing. An airing. Yes.’ He was blandly tapping his fingers on +the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. ‘Amy has gone for +an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron +Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.’ +He returned to conversation. ‘Your father is not on duty at present, I +think, John?’ + +‘No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.’ Another twirl of the +great hat, and then Young John said, rising, ‘I am afraid I must wish +you good day, sir.’ + +‘So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,’ with the utmost +condescension, ‘never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You +are no stranger here, you know.’ + +Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended +the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up +visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call +over the banisters with particular distinctness, ‘Much obliged to you +for your little testimonial, John!’ + +Little Dorrit’s lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of +the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known +and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he +walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing still, looking +at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what +she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and +chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the +distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them. + +Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that +although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and +twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still +she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem +to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to her. The place was +quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her. + +He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was +close upon her. When he said ‘Miss Dorrit!’ she started and fell back +from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like +dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him +before--always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and +glided off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the +unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped +that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of +the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary +look had said, ‘You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on +earth than you!’ + +It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her +soft little voice, ‘Oh, Mr John! Is it you?’ But she felt what it had +been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another +equally confused. + +‘Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.’ + +‘Yes, rather. I--I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.’ + +‘Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit +chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you--’ + +She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, ‘O father, +father!’ in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away. + +‘Miss Amy, I hope I don’t give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit. +I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he +showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to +say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very +much.’ + +To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her +hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she +were in pain, murmured, ‘O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how +can you, can you, do it!’ + +The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not +knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief +and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he +remained stock still; then hurried after her. + +‘Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy, +if it comes to that, let _me_ go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have +to think that I have driven you away like this.’ + +His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to +a stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do,’ she cried, ‘I don’t know what to +do!’ + +To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command, +who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed, +there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself +with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the +pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be +misunderstood--supposed to mean something, or to have done something, +that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him +explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him. + +‘Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were +vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever +I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false +representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well +that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn +me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be +admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they +are placed from my lowlier station--for, whether viewed as tobacco or +viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly--and ever wish them well and +happy.’ + +There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast +between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit, +perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him +to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to +divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This +gave him a little comfort. + +‘Miss Amy,’ he then stammered, ‘I have had for a long time--ages they +seem to me--Revolving ages--a heart-cherished wish to say something to +you. May I say it?’ + +Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the +faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at +great speed half across the Bridge without replying! + +‘May I--Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I have +been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such +intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying +it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up +by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would +fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment’s joy to! Not that +that’s much to do, for I’d do it for twopence.’ + +The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance, +might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him +respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do. + +‘If you please, John Chivery,’ she returned, trembling, but in a quiet +way, ‘since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say +any more--if you please, no.’ + +‘Never, Miss Amy?’ + +‘No, if you please. Never.’ + +‘O Lord!’ gasped Young John. + +‘But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want +to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to +express. When you think of us, John--I mean my brother, and sister, +and me--don’t think of us as being any different from the rest; for, +whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago, +and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much +better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing +now.’ + +Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and +would be heartily glad to do anything she wished. + +‘As to me,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘think as little of me as you can; the +less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as +the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties +always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I +particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I +am unprotected and solitary.’ + +He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much +want him to remember that? + +‘Because,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘I know I can then quite trust you +not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous +that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I +am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust you. I like this place +where we are speaking better than any place I know;’ her slight colour +had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; ‘and I +may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to +be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I +am--quite sure!’ + +She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but +her word was more than a law for him. + +‘And good-bye, John,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘And I hope you will have a +good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be +happy, and you will be, John.’ + +As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was +under the waistcoat of sprigs--mere slop-work, if the truth must be +known--swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor +common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears. + +‘Oh, don’t cry,’ said Little Dorrit piteously. ‘Don’t, don’t! Good-bye, +John. God bless you!’ + +‘Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!’ + +And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a +seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid +her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were +sad. + +It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects, +to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet +collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned +to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little +direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst +back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription +for a tombstone in St George’s Churchyard: + +‘Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth +mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight +hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last +breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was +accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.’ + + + + +CHAPTER 19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations + + +The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the +College-yard--of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father +made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children +on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other +occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual, +and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants, +and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly +edifying--the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together, +were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed, +withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending, +and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if +in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at. + +They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit’s +Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state +were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several +new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally +left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and +the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As +he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of +his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor +creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities +in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to +get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at. + +His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and +groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage +as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had +got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his +hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff. +That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly, +put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took +another pinch, or stood still to look about him--perchance suddenly +missing his clarionet. + +The College visitors were melting away as the shades of night drew on, +but the yard was still pretty full, the Collegians being mostly out, +seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the brothers paced the yard, +William the bond looked about him to receive salutes, returned them by +graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented +Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled +against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible, +but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to +find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at. + +‘You are a little low this evening, Frederick,’ said the Father of the +Marshalsea. ‘Anything the matter?’ + +‘The matter?’ He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes +again. ‘No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.’ + +‘If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick--’ + +‘Aye, aye!’ said the old man hurriedly. ‘But I can’t be. I can’t be. +Don’t talk so. That’s all over.’ + +The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he +was on friendly terms, as who should say, ‘An enfeebled old man, this; +but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is +potent!’ and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the +threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of +his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had +only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him. + +‘I think, William,’ said the object of his affectionate consideration, +‘that I am tired, and will go home to bed.’ + +‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the other, ‘don’t let me detain you; don’t +sacrifice your inclination to me.’ + +‘Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,’ said +Frederick, ‘weaken me.’ + +‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘do you +think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits +are as precise and methodical as--shall I say as mine are? Not to revert +again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if +you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always +at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?’ + +‘Hah!’ sighed the other. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’ + +‘But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,’ the Father +of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, ‘unless you act on that +assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity +and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day, +you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the +paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy +during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually. +Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and +you know what a good girl she is.’ + +The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, ‘Hah! Yes, +yes, yes, yes.’ + +‘My dear fellow,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand +upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him--mildly, because of his +weakness, poor dear soul; ‘you said that before, and it does not express +much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my +good Frederick; you want to be roused.’ + +‘Yes, William, yes. No doubt,’ returned the other, lifting his dim eyes +to his face. ‘But I am not like you.’ + +The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest +self-depreciation, ‘Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick; +you might be, if you chose!’ and forbore, in the magnanimity of his +strength, to press his fallen brother further. + +There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual +on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife +or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the +Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own +poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like +a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from +sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher +passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to +remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn’t get on +without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he +always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general +harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually +withdrew if they were aware of him. + +On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an +air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously +disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge, +several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and +some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and +conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance +made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short +manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable. + +‘Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?’ + +Mr Chivery said in a low growl, ‘Oh! _he_ was all right.’ Which was his +general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little +sullen. + +‘I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he +looked, I assure you.’ + +So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish +was that the boy didn’t lay out so much money upon it. For what did it +bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that +anywhere for nothing. + +‘How vexation, Chivery?’ asked the benignant father. + +‘No odds,’ returned Mr Chivery. ‘Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?’ + +‘Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and +not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear +Frederick!’ + +Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the +company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which +Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the +amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm. + +‘Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see +him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He +is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful +how you cross, Frederick. (I really don’t like the notion of his going +wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)’ + +With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and +much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled +company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be +pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect +went round among the Collegians assembled. + +But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he +said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother +Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to +himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within +the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence +there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities--he +did not say high qualities, but qualities--moral qualities. Now, had his +brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a +most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the +simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other +places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said, +Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character +than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to +that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of +character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was +his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it +was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough, +not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet +preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman. +Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see +in any delicate little attentions and--and--Testimonials that he might +under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine +spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time +no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a +gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you! + +Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to +the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again, +and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the +dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side +slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in +the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk +Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby +staircase to his own poor shabby room. + +There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was +ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her +little prayer-book in her pocket--had she been praying for pity on all +prisoners and captives!--and rose to welcome him. + +Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and +gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father +enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel +quite well? + +As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked +with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was +like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in +an unconnected and embarrassed manner. + +‘Something, I--hem!--I don’t know what, has gone wrong with Chivery. +He is not--ha!--not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night. +It--hem!--it’s a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It’s +impossible to forget,’ turning his hands over and over and looking +closely at them, ‘that--hem!--that in such a life as mine, I am +unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the +day.’ + +Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he +spoke. Bending her head she looked another way. + +‘I--hem!--I can’t think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is +generally so--so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was +quite--quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven! +if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother +officers, I might starve to death here.’ While he spoke, he was opening +and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that +touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning. + +‘I--ha!--I can’t think what it’s owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine +what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a +turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don’t think you can remember him, +my dear, you were very young), and--hem!--and he had a--brother, and +this--young brother paid his addresses to--at least, did not go so far +as to pay his addresses to--but admired--respectfully admired--the--not +daughter, the sister--of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I +may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he +consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his +daughter--sister--should hazard offending the turnkey brother by +being too--ha!--too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was +a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me +his--his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then +unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his--hem!--sister was +not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that +she might lead him on--I am doubtful whether “lead him on” was Captain +Martin’s exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him--on her +father’s--I should say, brother’s--account. I hardly know how I have +strayed into this story. I suppose it has been through being unable to +account for Chivery; but as to the connection between the two, I don’t +see--’ + +His voice died away, as if she could not bear the pain of hearing him, +and her hand had gradually crept to his lips. For a little while there +was a dead silence and stillness; and he remained shrunk in his chair, +and she remained with her arm round his neck and her head bowed down +upon his shoulder. + +His supper was cooking in a saucepan on the fire, and, when she moved, +it was to make it ready for him on the table. He took his usual seat, +she took hers, and he began his meal. They did not, as yet, look at one +another. By little and little he began; laying down his knife and fork +with a noise, taking things up sharply, biting at his bread as if he +were offended with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was out +of sorts. At length he pushed his plate from him, and spoke aloud; with +the strangest inconsistency. + +‘What does it matter whether I eat or starve? What does it matter +whether such a blighted life as mine comes to an end, now, next week, or +next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, fed on alms and +broken victuals; a squalid, disgraced wretch!’ + +‘Father, father!’ As he rose she went on her knees to him, and held up +her hands to him. + +‘Amy,’ he went on in a suppressed voice, trembling violently, and +looking at her as wildly as if he had gone mad. ‘I tell you, if you +could see me as your mother saw me, you wouldn’t believe it to be the +creature you have only looked at through the bars of this cage. I was +young, I was accomplished, I was good-looking, I was independent--by God +I was, child!--and people sought me out, and envied me. Envied me!’ + +‘Dear father!’ She tried to take down the shaking arm that he flourished +in the air, but he resisted, and put her hand away. + +‘If I had but a picture of myself in those days, though it was ever so +ill done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have +no such thing. Now, let me be a warning! Let no man,’ he cried, looking +haggardly about, ‘fail to preserve at least that little of the times of +his prosperity and respect. Let his children have that clue to what he +was. Unless my face, when I am dead, subsides into the long departed +look--they say such things happen, I don’t know--my children will have +never seen me.’ + +‘Father, father!’ + +‘O despise me, despise me! Look away from me, don’t listen to me, stop +me, blush for me, cry for me--even you, Amy! Do it, do it! I do it to +myself! I am hardened now, I have sunk too low to care long even for +that.’ + +‘Dear father, loved father, darling of my heart!’ She was clinging to +him with her arms, and she got him to drop into his chair again, and +caught at the raised arm, and tried to put it round her neck. + +‘Let it lie there, father. Look at me, father, kiss me, father! Only +think of me, father, for one little moment!’ + +Still he went on in the same wild way, though it was gradually breaking +down into a miserable whining. + +‘And yet I have some respect here. I have made some stand against it. I +am not quite trodden down. Go out and ask who is the chief person in the +place. They’ll tell you it’s your father. Go out and ask who is never +trifled with, and who is always treated with some delicacy. They’ll say, +your father. Go out and ask what funeral here (it must be here, I know +it can be nowhere else) will make more talk, and perhaps more grief, +than any that has ever gone out at the gate. They’ll say your father’s. +Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father so universally despised? Is there +nothing to redeem him? Will you have nothing to remember him by but his +ruin and decay? Will you be able to have no affection for him when he is +gone, poor castaway, gone?’ + +He burst into tears of maudlin pity for himself, and at length suffering +her to embrace him and take charge of him, let his grey head rest +against her cheek, and bewailed his wretchedness. Presently he changed +the subject of his lamentations, and clasping his hands about her as she +embraced him, cried, O Amy, his motherless, forlorn child! O the days +that he had seen her careful and laborious for him! Then he reverted to +himself, and weakly told her how much better she would have loved him +if she had known him in his vanished character, and how he would have +married her to a gentleman who should have been proud of her as his +daughter, and how (at which he cried again) she should first have ridden +at his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (by which he +meant in effect the people who had given him the twelve shillings +he then had in his pocket) should have trudged the dusty roads +respectfully. + +Thus, now boasting, now despairing, in either fit a captive with the +jail-rot upon him, and the impurity of his prison worn into the grain of +his soul, he revealed his degenerate state to his affectionate child. +No one else ever beheld him in the details of his humiliation. Little +recked the Collegians who were laughing in their rooms over his late +address in the Lodge, what a serious picture they had in their obscure +gallery of the Marshalsea that Sunday night. + +There was a classical daughter once--perhaps--who ministered to her +father in his prison as her mother had ministered to her. Little Dorrit, +though of the unheroic modern stock and mere English, did much more, +in comforting her father’s wasted heart upon her innocent breast, and +turning to it a fountain of love and fidelity that never ran dry or +waned through all his years of famine. + +She soothed him; asked him for his forgiveness if she had been, or +seemed to have been, undutiful; told him, Heaven knows truly, that she +could not honour him more if he were the favourite of Fortune and the +whole world acknowledged him. When his tears were dried, and he sobbed +in his weakness no longer, and was free from that touch of shame, and +had recovered his usual bearing, she prepared the remains of his supper +afresh, and, sitting by his side, rejoiced to see him eat and drink. For +now he sat in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, magnanimous again; +and would have comported himself towards any Collegian who might have +looked in to ask his advice, like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or +Master of the ethical ceremonies of the Marshalsea. + +To keep his attention engaged, she talked with him about his wardrobe; +when he was pleased to say, that Yes, indeed, those shirts she proposed +would be exceedingly acceptable, for those he had were worn out, and, +being ready-made, had never fitted him. Being conversational, and in a +reasonable flow of spirits, he then invited her attention to his coat +as it hung behind the door: remarking that the Father of the place +would set an indifferent example to his children, already disposed to be +slovenly, if he went among them out at elbows. He was jocular, too, +as to the heeling of his shoes; but became grave on the subject of his +cravat, and promised her that, when she could afford it, she should buy +him a new one. + +While he smoked out his cigar in peace, she made his bed, and put the +small room in order for his repose. Being weary then, owing to the +advanced hour and his emotions, he came out of his chair to bless her +and wish her Good night. All this time he had never once thought of _her_ +dress, her shoes, her need of anything. No other person upon earth, save +herself, could have been so unmindful of her wants. + +He kissed her many times with ‘Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!’ + +But her gentle breast had been so deeply wounded by what she had seen of +him that she was unwilling to leave him alone, lest he should lament +and despair again. ‘Father, dear, I am not tired; let me come back +presently, when you are in bed, and sit by you.’ + +He asked her, with an air of protection, if she felt solitary? + +‘Yes, father.’ + +‘Then come back by all means, my love.’ + +‘I shall be very quiet, father.’ + +‘Don’t think of me, my dear,’ he said, giving her his kind permission +fully. ‘Come back by all means.’ + +He seemed to be dozing when she returned, and she put the low fire +together very softly lest she should awake him. But he overheard her, +and called out who was that? + +‘Only Amy, father.’ + +‘Amy, my child, come here. I want to say a word to you.’ + +He raised himself a little in his low bed, as she kneeled beside it to +bring her face near him; and put his hand between hers. O! Both the +private father and the Father of the Marshalsea were strong within him +then. + +‘My love, you have had a life of hardship here. No companions, no +recreations, many cares I am afraid?’ + +‘Don’t think of that, dear. I never do.’ + +‘You know my position, Amy. I have not been able to do much for you; but +all I have been able to do, I have done.’ + +‘Yes, my dear father,’ she rejoined, kissing him. ‘I know, I know.’ + +‘I am in the twenty-third year of my life here,’ he said, with a catch +in his breath that was not so much a sob as an irrepressible sound of +self-approval, the momentary outburst of a noble consciousness. ‘It is +all I could do for my children--I have done it. Amy, my love, you are +by far the best loved of the three; I have had you principally in my +mind--whatever I have done for your sake, my dear child, I have done +freely and without murmuring.’ + +Only the wisdom that holds the clue to all hearts and all mysteries, can +surely know to what extent a man, especially a man brought down as this +man had been, can impose upon himself. Enough, for the present place, +that he lay down with wet eyelashes, serene, in a manner majestic, after +bestowing his life of degradation as a sort of portion on the devoted +child upon whom its miseries had fallen so heavily, and whose love alone +had saved him to be even what he was. + +That child had no doubts, asked herself no question, for she was but too +content to see him with a lustre round his head. Poor dear, good dear, +truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him, as she +hushed him to rest. + +She never left him all that night. As if she had done him a wrong which +her tenderness could hardly repair, she sat by him in his sleep, at +times softly kissing him with suspended breath, and calling him in a +whisper by some endearing name. At times she stood aside so as not to +intercept the low fire-light, and, watching him when it fell upon his +sleeping face, wondered did he look now at all as he had looked when he +was prosperous and happy; as he had so touched her by imagining that he +might look once more in that awful time. At the thought of that time, +she kneeled beside his bed again, and prayed, ‘O spare his life! O +save him to me! O look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate, +much-changed, dear dear father!’ + +Not until the morning came to protect him and encourage him, did she +give him a last kiss and leave the small room. When she had stolen +down-stairs, and along the empty yard, and had crept up to her own +high garret, the smokeless housetops and the distant country hills were +discernible over the wall in the clear morning. As she gently opened the +window, and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes upon the +wall were tipped with red, then made a sullen purple pattern on the sun +as it came flaming up into the heavens. The spikes had never looked so +sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so gloomy +and contracted. She thought of the sunrise on rolling rivers, of the +sunrise on wide seas, of the sunrise on rich landscapes, of the +sunrise on great forests where the birds were waking and the trees were +rustling; and she looked down into the living grave on which the sun +had risen, with her father in it three-and-twenty years, and said, in +a burst of sorrow and compassion, ‘No, no, I have never seen him in my +life!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 20. Moving in Society + + +If Young John Chivery had had the inclination and the power to write a +satire on family pride, he would have had no need to go for an avenging +illustration out of the family of his beloved. He would have found it +amply in that gallant brother and that dainty sister, so steeped in mean +experiences, and so loftily conscious of the family name; so ready +to beg or borrow from the poorest, to eat of anybody’s bread, spend +anybody’s money, drink from anybody’s cup and break it afterwards. +To have painted the sordid facts of their lives, and they throughout +invoking the death’s head apparition of the family gentility to come and +scare their benefactors, would have made Young John a satirist of the +first water. + +Tip had turned his liberty to hopeful account by becoming a +billiard-marker. He had troubled himself so little as to the means of +his release, that Clennam scarcely needed to have been at the pains of +impressing the mind of Mr Plornish on that subject. Whoever had paid +him the compliment, he very readily accepted the compliment with _his_ +compliments, and there was an end of it. Issuing forth from the gate +on these easy terms, he became a billiard-marker; and now occasionally +looked in at the little skittle-ground in a green Newmarket coat +(second-hand), with a shining collar and bright buttons (new), and drank +the beer of the Collegians. + +One solid stationary point in the looseness of this gentleman’s +character was, that he respected and admired his sister Amy. The feeling +had never induced him to spare her a moment’s uneasiness, or to put +himself to any restraint or inconvenience on her account; but with that +Marshalsea taint upon his love, he loved her. The same rank Marshalsea +flavour was to be recognised in his distinctly perceiving that she +sacrificed her life to her father, and in his having no idea that she +had done anything for himself. + +When this spirited young man and his sister had begun systematically +to produce the family skeleton for the overawing of the College, this +narrative cannot precisely state. Probably at about the period when +they began to dine on the College charity. It is certain that the more +reduced and necessitous they were, the more pompously the skeleton +emerged from its tomb; and that when there was anything particularly +shabby in the wind, the skeleton always came out with the ghastliest +flourish. + +Little Dorrit was late on the Monday morning, for her father slept +late, and afterwards there was his breakfast to prepare and his room to +arrange. She had no engagement to go out to work, however, and therefore +stayed with him until, with Maggy’s help, she had put everything right +about him, and had seen him off upon his morning walk (of twenty yards +or so) to the coffee-house to read the paper. She then got on her bonnet +and went out, having been anxious to get out much sooner. There was, as +usual, a cessation of the small-talk in the Lodge as she passed through +it; and a Collegian who had come in on Saturday night, received the +intimation from the elbow of a more seasoned Collegian, ‘Look out. Here +she is!’ + +She wanted to see her sister, but when she got round to Mr Cripples’s, +she found that both her sister and her uncle had gone to the theatre +where they were engaged. Having taken thought of this probability by +the way, and having settled that in such case she would follow them, she +set off afresh for the theatre, which was on that side of the river, and +not very far away. + +Little Dorrit was almost as ignorant of the ways of theatres as of the +ways of gold mines, and when she was directed to a furtive sort of door, +with a curious up-all-night air about it, that appeared to be ashamed of +itself and to be hiding in an alley, she hesitated to approach it; being +further deterred by the sight of some half-dozen close-shaved gentlemen +with their hats very strangely on, who were lounging about the door, +looking not at all unlike Collegians. On her applying to them, reassured +by this resemblance, for a direction to Miss Dorrit, they made way for +her to enter a dark hall--it was more like a great grim lamp gone out +than anything else--where she could hear the distant playing of music +and the sound of dancing feet. A man so much in want of airing that he +had a blue mould upon him, sat watching this dark place from a hole in +a corner, like a spider; and he told her that he would send a message +up to Miss Dorrit by the first lady or gentleman who went through. The +first lady who went through had a roll of music, half in her muff and +half out of it, and was in such a tumbled condition altogether, that it +seemed as if it would be an act of kindness to iron her. But as she was +very good-natured, and said, ‘Come with me; I’ll soon find Miss Dorrit +for you,’ Miss Dorrit’s sister went with her, drawing nearer and nearer +at every step she took in the darkness to the sound of music and the +sound of dancing feet. + +At last they came into a maze of dust, where a quantity of people were +tumbling over one another, and where there was such a confusion of +unaccountable shapes of beams, bulkheads, brick walls, ropes, and +rollers, and such a mixing of gaslight and daylight, that they seemed +to have got on the wrong side of the pattern of the universe. Little +Dorrit, left to herself, and knocked against by somebody every moment, +was quite bewildered, when she heard her sister’s voice. + +‘Why, good gracious, Amy, what ever brought you here?’ + +‘I wanted to see you, Fanny dear; and as I am going out all day +to-morrow, and knew you might be engaged all day to-day, I thought--’ + +‘But the idea, Amy, of _you_ coming behind! I never did!’ As her sister +said this in no very cordial tone of welcome, she conducted her to a +more open part of the maze, where various golden chairs and tables were +heaped together, and where a number of young ladies were sitting on +anything they could find, chattering. All these young ladies wanted +ironing, and all had a curious way of looking everywhere while they +chattered. + +Just as the sisters arrived here, a monotonous boy in a Scotch cap put +his head round a beam on the left, and said, ‘Less noise there, ladies!’ +and disappeared. Immediately after which, a sprightly gentleman with a +quantity of long black hair looked round a beam on the right, and said, +‘Less noise there, darlings!’ and also disappeared. + +‘The notion of you among professionals, Amy, is really the last thing +I could have conceived!’ said her sister. ‘Why, how did you ever get +here?’ + +‘I don’t know. The lady who told you I was here, was so good as to bring +me in.’ + +‘Like you quiet little things! You can make your way anywhere, I +believe. _I_ couldn’t have managed it, Amy, though I know so much more of +the world.’ + +It was the family custom to lay it down as family law, that she was a +plain domestic little creature, without the great and sage experience of +the rest. This family fiction was the family assertion of itself against +her services. Not to make too much of them. + +‘Well! And what have you got on your mind, Amy? Of course you have +got something on your mind about me?’ said Fanny. She spoke as if her +sister, between two and three years her junior, were her prejudiced +grandmother. + +‘It is not much; but since you told me of the lady who gave you the +bracelet, Fanny--’ + +The monotonous boy put his head round the beam on the left, and said, +‘Look out there, ladies!’ and disappeared. The sprightly gentleman with +the black hair as suddenly put his head round the beam on the right, and +said, ‘Look out there, darlings!’ and also disappeared. Thereupon all +the young ladies rose and began shaking their skirts out behind. + +‘Well, Amy?’ said Fanny, doing as the rest did; ‘what were you going to +say?’ + +‘Since you told me a lady had given you the bracelet you showed me, +Fanny, I have not been quite easy on your account, and indeed want to +know a little more if you will confide more to me.’ + +‘Now, ladies!’ said the boy in the Scotch cap. ‘Now, darlings!’ said the +gentleman with the black hair. They were every one gone in a moment, and +the music and the dancing feet were heard again. + +Little Dorrit sat down in a golden chair, made quite giddy by these +rapid interruptions. Her sister and the rest were a long time gone; and +during their absence a voice (it appeared to be that of the gentleman +with the black hair) was continually calling out through the music, +‘One, two, three, four, five, six--go! One, two, three, four, five, +six--go! Steady, darlings! One, two, three, four, five, six--go!’ +Ultimately the voice stopped, and they all came back again, more or less +out of breath, folding themselves in their shawls, and making ready +for the streets. ‘Stop a moment, Amy, and let them get away before +us,’ whispered Fanny. They were soon left alone; nothing more important +happening, in the meantime, than the boy looking round his old beam, and +saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, ladies!’ and the gentleman with +the black hair looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at +eleven to-morrow, darlings!’ each in his own accustomed manner. + +When they were alone, something was rolled up or by other means got out +of the way, and there was a great empty well before them, looking down +into the depths of which Fanny said, ‘Now, uncle!’ Little Dorrit, as her +eyes became used to the darkness, faintly made him out at the bottom of +the well, in an obscure corner by himself, with his instrument in its +ragged case under his arm. + +The old man looked as if the remote high gallery windows, with their +little strip of sky, might have been the point of his better fortunes, +from which he had descended, until he had gradually sunk down below +there to the bottom. He had been in that place six nights a week for +many years, but had never been observed to raise his eyes above his +music-book, and was confidently believed to have never seen a play. +There were legends in the place that he did not so much as know the +popular heroes and heroines by sight, and that the low comedian had +‘mugged’ at him in his richest manner fifty nights for a wager, and he +had shown no trace of consciousness. The carpenters had a joke to the +effect that he was dead without being aware of it; and the frequenters +of the pit supposed him to pass his whole life, night and day, and +Sunday and all, in the orchestra. They had tried him a few times with +pinches of snuff offered over the rails, and he had always responded to +this attention with a momentary waking up of manner that had the pale +phantom of a gentleman in it: beyond this he never, on any occasion, had +any other part in what was going on than the part written out for the +clarionet; in private life, where there was no part for the clarionet, +he had no part at all. Some said he was poor, some said he was a wealthy +miser; but he said nothing, never lifted up his bowed head, never varied +his shuffling gait by getting his springless foot from the ground. +Though expecting now to be summoned by his niece, he did not hear her +until she had spoken to him three or four times; nor was he at all +surprised by the presence of two nieces instead of one, but merely said +in his tremulous voice, ‘I am coming, I am coming!’ and crept forth by +some underground way which emitted a cellarous smell. + +‘And so, Amy,’ said her sister, when the three together passed out at +the door that had such a shame-faced consciousness of being different +from other doors: the uncle instinctively taking Amy’s arm as the arm to +be relied on: ‘so, Amy, you are curious about me?’ + +She was pretty, and conscious, and rather flaunting; and the +condescension with which she put aside the superiority of her charms, +and of her worldly experience, and addressed her sister on almost equal +terms, had a vast deal of the family in it. + +‘I am interested, Fanny, and concerned in anything that concerns you.’ + +‘So you are, so you are, and you are the best of Amys. If I am ever a +little provoking, I am sure you’ll consider what a thing it is to +occupy my position and feel a consciousness of being superior to it. I +shouldn’t care,’ said the Daughter of the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘if +the others were not so common. None of them have come down in the world +as we have. They are all on their own level. Common.’ + +Little Dorrit mildly looked at the speaker, but did not interrupt her. +Fanny took out her handkerchief, and rather angrily wiped her eyes. ‘I +was not born where you were, you know, Amy, and perhaps that makes a +difference. My dear child, when we get rid of Uncle, you shall know all +about it. We’ll drop him at the cook’s shop where he is going to dine.’ + +They walked on with him until they came to a dirty shop window in a +dirty street, which was made almost opaque by the steam of hot meats, +vegetables, and puddings. But glimpses were to be caught of a roast leg +of pork bursting into tears of sage and onion in a metal reservoir full +of gravy, of an unctuous piece of roast beef and blisterous Yorkshire +pudding, bubbling hot in a similar receptacle, of a stuffed fillet of +veal in rapid cut, of a ham in a perspiration with the pace it was going +at, of a shallow tank of baked potatoes glued together by their own +richness, of a truss or two of boiled greens, and other substantial +delicacies. Within, were a few wooden partitions, behind which such +customers as found it more convenient to take away their dinners in +stomachs than in their hands, Packed their purchases in solitude. Fanny +opening her reticule, as they surveyed these things, produced from that +repository a shilling and handed it to Uncle. Uncle, after not looking +at it a little while, divined its object, and muttering ‘Dinner? Ha! +Yes, yes, yes!’ slowly vanished from them into the mist. + +‘Now, Amy,’ said her sister, ‘come with me, if you are not too tired to +walk to Harley Street, Cavendish Square.’ + +The air with which she threw off this distinguished address and the toss +she gave to her new bonnet (which was more gauzy than serviceable), made +her sister wonder; however, she expressed her readiness to go to Harley +Street, and thither they directed their steps. Arrived at that grand +destination, Fanny singled out the handsomest house, and knocking at the +door, inquired for Mrs Merdle. The footman who opened the door, although +he had powder on his head and was backed up by two other footmen +likewise powdered, not only admitted Mrs Merdle to be at home, but asked +Fanny to walk in. Fanny walked in, taking her sister with her; and they +went up-stairs with powder going before and powder stopping behind, +and were left in a spacious semicircular drawing-room, one of several +drawing-rooms, where there was a parrot on the outside of a golden cage +holding on by its beak, with its scaly legs in the air, and putting +itself into many strange upside-down postures. This peculiarity has been +observed in birds of quite another feather, climbing upon golden wires. + +The room was far more splendid than anything Little Dorrit had ever +imagined, and would have been splendid and costly in any eyes. She +looked in amazement at her sister and would have asked a question, +but that Fanny with a warning frown pointed to a curtained doorway of +communication with another room. The curtain shook next moment, and a +lady, raising it with a heavily ringed hand, dropped it behind her again +as she entered. + +The lady was not young and fresh from the hand of Nature, but was young +and fresh from the hand of her maid. She had large unfeeling handsome +eyes, and dark unfeeling handsome hair, and a broad unfeeling handsome +bosom, and was made the most of in every particular. Either because she +had a cold, or because it suited her face, she wore a rich white +fillet tied over her head and under her chin. And if ever there were +an unfeeling handsome chin that looked as if, for certain, it had never +been, in familiar parlance, ‘chucked’ by the hand of man, it was the +chin curbed up so tight and close by that laced bridle. + +‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny. ‘My sister, ma’am.’ + +‘I am glad to see your sister, Miss Dorrit. I did not remember that you +had a sister.’ + +‘I did not mention that I had,’ said Fanny. + +‘Ah!’ Mrs Merdle curled the little finger of her left hand as who should +say, ‘I have caught you. I know you didn’t!’ All her action was usually +with her left hand because her hands were not a pair; and left being +much the whiter and plumper of the two. Then she added: ‘Sit down,’ and +composed herself voluptuously, in a nest of crimson and gold cushions, +on an ottoman near the parrot. + +‘Also professional?’ said Mrs Merdle, looking at Little Dorrit through +an eye-glass. + +Fanny answered No. ‘No,’ said Mrs Merdle, dropping her glass. ‘Has not a +professional air. Very pleasant; but not professional.’ + +‘My sister, ma’am,’ said Fanny, in whom there was a singular mixture +of deference and hardihood, ‘has been asking me to tell her, as between +sisters, how I came to have the honour of knowing you. And as I had +engaged to call upon you once more, I thought I might take the liberty +of bringing her with me, when perhaps you would tell her. I wish her to +know, and perhaps you will tell her?’ + +‘Do you think, at your sister’s age--’ hinted Mrs Merdle. + +‘She is much older than she looks,’ said Fanny; ‘almost as old as I am.’ + +‘Society,’ said Mrs Merdle, with another curve of her little finger, ‘is +so difficult to explain to young persons (indeed is so difficult to +explain to most persons), that I am glad to hear that. I wish Society +was not so arbitrary, I wish it was not so exacting--Bird, be quiet!’ + +The parrot had given a most piercing shriek, as if its name were Society +and it asserted its right to its exactions. + +‘But,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘we must take it as we find it. We know it is +hollow and conventional and worldly and very shocking, but unless we +are Savages in the Tropical seas (I should have been charmed to be one +myself--most delightful life and perfect climate, I am told), we +must consult it. It is the common lot. Mr Merdle is a most extensive +merchant, his transactions are on the vastest scale, his wealth and +influence are very great, but even he--Bird, be quiet!’ + +The parrot had shrieked another shriek; and it filled up the sentence so +expressively that Mrs Merdle was under no necessity to end it. + +‘Since your sister begs that I would terminate our personal +acquaintance,’ she began again, addressing Little Dorrit, ‘by relating +the circumstances that are much to her credit, I cannot object to comply +with her request, I am sure. I have a son (I was first married extremely +young) of two or three-and-twenty.’ + +Fanny set her lips, and her eyes looked half triumphantly at her sister. + +‘A son of two or three-and-twenty. He is a little gay, a thing Society +is accustomed to in young men, and he is very impressible. Perhaps he +inherits that misfortune. I am very impressible myself, by nature. The +weakest of creatures--my feelings are touched in a moment.’ + +She said all this, and everything else, as coldly as a woman of snow; +quite forgetting the sisters except at odd times, and apparently +addressing some abstraction of Society; for whose behoof, too, she +occasionally arranged her dress, or the composition of her figure upon +the ottoman. + +‘So he is very impressible. Not a misfortune in our natural state I dare +say, but we are not in a natural state. Much to be lamented, no doubt, +particularly by myself, who am a child of nature if I could but show it; +but so it is. Society suppresses us and dominates us--Bird, be quiet!’ + +The parrot had broken into a violent fit of laughter, after twisting +divers bars of his cage with his crooked bill, and licking them with his +black tongue. + +‘It is quite unnecessary to say to a person of your good sense, wide +range of experience, and cultivated feeling,’ said Mrs Merdle from her +nest of crimson and gold--and there put up her glass to refresh her +memory as to whom she was addressing,--‘that the stage sometimes has +a fascination for young men of that class of character. In saying the +stage, I mean the people on it of the female sex. Therefore, when I +heard that my son was supposed to be fascinated by a dancer, I knew what +that usually meant in Society, and confided in her being a dancer at the +Opera, where young men moving in Society are usually fascinated.’ + +She passed her white hands over one another, observant of the sisters +now; and the rings upon her fingers grated against each other with a +hard sound. + +‘As your sister will tell you, when I found what the theatre was I was +much surprised and much distressed. But when I found that your sister, +by rejecting my son’s advances (I must add, in an unexpected manner), +had brought him to the point of proposing marriage, my feelings were +of the profoundest anguish--acute.’ + +She traced the outline of her left eyebrow, and put it right. + +‘In a distracted condition, which only a mother--moving in Society--can +be susceptible of, I determined to go myself to the theatre, and +represent my state of mind to the dancer. I made myself known to your +sister. I found her, to my surprise, in many respects different from +my expectations; and certainly in none more so, than in meeting me +with--what shall I say--a sort of family assertion on her own part?’ Mrs +Merdle smiled. + +‘I told you, ma’am,’ said Fanny, with a heightening colour, ‘that +although you found me in that situation, I was so far above the rest, +that I considered my family as good as your son’s; and that I had a +brother who, knowing the circumstances, would be of the same opinion, +and would not consider such a connection any honour.’ + +‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, after frostily looking at her through +her glass, ‘precisely what I was on the point of telling your sister, +in pursuance of your request. Much obliged to you for recalling it +so accurately and anticipating me. I immediately,’ addressing Little +Dorrit, ‘(for I am the creature of impulse), took a bracelet from my +arm, and begged your sister to let me clasp it on hers, in token of +the delight I had in our being able to approach the subject so far on +a common footing.’ (This was perfectly true, the lady having bought a +cheap and showy article on her way to the interview, with a general eye +to bribery.) + +‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that we might be unfortunate, +but we are not common.’ + +‘I think, the very words, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle. + +‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that if you spoke to me +of the superiority of your son’s standing in Society, it was barely +possible that you rather deceived yourself in your suppositions about my +origin; and that my father’s standing, even in the Society in which +he now moved (what that was, was best known to myself), was eminently +superior, and was acknowledged by every one.’ + +‘Quite accurate,’ rejoined Mrs Merdle. ‘A most admirable memory.’ + +‘Thank you, ma’am. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell my sister the +rest.’ + +‘There is very little to tell,’ said Mrs Merdle, reviewing the breadth +of bosom which seemed essential to her having room enough to be +unfeeling in, ‘but it is to your sister’s credit. I pointed out to your +sister the plain state of the case; the impossibility of the Society +in which we moved recognising the Society in which she moved--though +charming, I have no doubt; the immense disadvantage at which she would +consequently place the family she had so high an opinion of, upon which +we should find ourselves compelled to look down with contempt, and +from which (socially speaking) we should feel obliged to recoil with +abhorrence. In short, I made an appeal to that laudable pride in your +sister.’ + +‘Let my sister know, if you please, Mrs Merdle,’ Fanny pouted, with a +toss of her gauzy bonnet, ‘that I had already had the honour of telling +your son that I wished to have nothing whatever to say to him.’ + +‘Well, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle, ‘perhaps I might have +mentioned that before. If I did not think of it, perhaps it was because +my mind reverted to the apprehensions I had at the time that he might +persevere and you might have something to say to him. I also mentioned +to your sister--I again address the non-professional Miss Dorrit--that +my son would have nothing in the event of such a marriage, and would be +an absolute beggar. (I mention that merely as a fact which is part of +the narrative, and not as supposing it to have influenced your sister, +except in the prudent and legitimate way in which, constituted as our +artificial system is, we must all be influenced by such considerations.) +Finally, after some high words and high spirit on the part of your +sister, we came to the complete understanding that there was no danger; +and your sister was so obliging as to allow me to present her with a +mark or two of my appreciation at my dressmaker’s.’ + +Little Dorrit looked sorry, and glanced at Fanny with a troubled face. + +‘Also,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘as to promise to give me the present pleasure +of a closing interview, and of parting with her on the best of terms. +On which occasion,’ added Mrs Merdle, quitting her nest, and putting +something in Fanny’s hand, ‘Miss Dorrit will permit me to say Farewell +with best wishes in my own dull manner.’ + +The sisters rose at the same time, and they all stood near the cage of +the parrot, as he tore at a claw-full of biscuit and spat it out, seemed +to mock them with a pompous dance of his body without moving his feet, +and suddenly turned himself upside down and trailed himself all over +the outside of his golden cage, with the aid of his cruel beak and black +tongue. + +‘Adieu, Miss Dorrit, with best wishes,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘If we could +only come to a Millennium, or something of that sort, I for one might +have the pleasure of knowing a number of charming and talented persons +from whom I am at present excluded. A more primitive state of society +would be delicious to me. There used to be a poem when I learnt lessons, +something about Lo the poor Indians whose something mind! If a few +thousand persons moving in Society, could only go and be Indians, I +would put my name down directly; but as, moving in Society, we can’t be +Indians, unfortunately--Good morning!’ + +They came down-stairs with powder before them and powder behind, the +elder sister haughty and the younger sister humbled, and were shut out +into unpowdered Harley Street, Cavendish Square. + +‘Well?’ said Fanny, when they had gone a little way without speaking. +‘Have you nothing to say, Amy?’ + +‘Oh, I don’t know what to say!’ she answered, distressed. ‘You didn’t +like this young man, Fanny?’ + +‘Like him? He is almost an idiot.’ + +‘I am so sorry--don’t be hurt--but, since you ask me what I have to +say, I am so very sorry, Fanny, that you suffered this lady to give you +anything.’ + +‘You little Fool!’ returned her sister, shaking her with the sharp pull +she gave her arm. ‘Have you no spirit at all? But that’s just the way! +You have no self-respect, you have no becoming pride, just as you allow +yourself to be followed about by a contemptible little Chivery of a +thing,’ with the scornfullest emphasis, ‘you would let your family be +trodden on, and never turn.’ + +‘Don’t say that, dear Fanny. I do what I can for them.’ + +‘You do what you can for them!’ repeated Fanny, walking her on very +fast. ‘Would you let a woman like this, whom you could see, if you had +any experience of anything, to be as false and insolent as a woman can +be--would you let her put her foot upon your family, and thank her for +it?’ + +‘No, Fanny, I am sure.’ + +‘Then make her pay for it, you mean little thing. What else can you make +her do? Make her pay for it, you stupid child; and do your family some +credit with the money!’ + +They spoke no more all the way back to the lodging where Fanny and her +uncle lived. When they arrived there, they found the old man practising +his clarionet in the dolefullest manner in a corner of the room. +Fanny had a composite meal to make, of chops, and porter, and tea; and +indignantly pretended to prepare it for herself, though her sister did +all that in quiet reality. When at last Fanny sat down to eat and drink, +she threw the table implements about and was angry with her bread, much +as her father had been last night. + +‘If you despise me,’ she said, bursting into vehement tears, ‘because I +am a dancer, why did you put me in the way of being one? It was your +doing. You would have me stoop as low as the ground before this Mrs +Merdle, and let her say what she liked and do what she liked, and hold +us all in contempt, and tell me so to my face. Because I am a dancer!’ + +‘O Fanny!’ + +‘And Tip, too, poor fellow. She is to disparage him just as much as she +likes, without any check--I suppose because he has been in the law, and +the docks, and different things. Why, it was your doing, Amy. You might +at least approve of his being defended.’ + +All this time the uncle was dolefully blowing his clarionet in the +corner, sometimes taking it an inch or so from his mouth for a moment +while he stopped to gaze at them, with a vague impression that somebody +had said something. + +‘And your father, your poor father, Amy. Because he is not free to show +himself and to speak for himself, you would let such people insult him +with impunity. If you don’t feel for yourself because you go out to +work, you might at least feel for him, I should think, knowing what he +has undergone so long.’ + +Poor Little Dorrit felt the injustice of this taunt rather sharply. +The remembrance of last night added a barbed point to it. She said +nothing in reply, but turned her chair from the table towards the fire. +Uncle, after making one more pause, blew a dismal wail and went on +again. + +Fanny was passionate with the tea-cups and the bread as long as her +passion lasted, and then protested that she was the wretchedest girl in +the world, and she wished she was dead. After that, her crying became +remorseful, and she got up and put her arms round her sister. Little +Dorrit tried to stop her from saying anything, but she answered that +she would, she must! Thereupon she said again, and again, ‘I beg your +pardon, Amy,’ and ‘Forgive me, Amy,’ almost as passionately as she had +said what she regretted. + +‘But indeed, indeed, Amy,’ she resumed when they were seated in sisterly +accord side by side, ‘I hope and I think you would have seen this +differently, if you had known a little more of Society.’ + +‘Perhaps I might, Fanny,’ said the mild Little Dorrit. + +‘You see, while you have been domestic and resignedly shut up there, +Amy,’ pursued her sister, gradually beginning to patronise, ‘I have +been out, moving more in Society, and may have been getting proud and +spirited--more than I ought to be, perhaps?’ + +Little Dorrit answered ‘Yes. O yes!’ + +‘And while you have been thinking of the dinner or the clothes, I may +have been thinking, you know, of the family. Now, may it not be so, +Amy?’ + +Little Dorrit again nodded ‘Yes,’ with a more cheerful face than heart. + +‘Especially as we know,’ said Fanny, ‘that there certainly is a tone in +the place to which you have been so true, which does belong to it, and +which does make it different from other aspects of Society. So kiss me +once again, Amy dear, and we will agree that we may both be right, and +that you are a tranquil, domestic, home-loving, good girl.’ + +The clarionet had been lamenting most pathetically during this dialogue, +but was cut short now by Fanny’s announcement that it was time to go; +which she conveyed to her uncle by shutting up his scrap of music, and +taking the clarionet out of his mouth. + +Little Dorrit parted from them at the door, and hastened back to the +Marshalsea. It fell dark there sooner than elsewhere, and going into it +that evening was like going into a deep trench. The shadow of the wall +was on every object. Not least upon the figure in the old grey gown and +the black velvet cap, as it turned towards her when she opened the door +of the dim room. + +‘Why not upon me too!’ thought Little Dorrit, with the door yet in her +hand. ‘It was not unreasonable in Fanny.’ + + + + +CHAPTER 21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint + + +Upon that establishment of state, the Merdle establishment in Harley +Street, Cavendish Square, there was the shadow of no more common wall +than the fronts of other establishments of state on the opposite side of +the street. Like unexceptionable Society, the opposing rows of houses in +Harley Street were very grim with one another. Indeed, the mansions and +their inhabitants were so much alike in that respect, that the people +were often to be found drawn up on opposite sides of dinner-tables, in +the shade of their own loftiness, staring at the other side of the way +with the dullness of the houses. + +Everybody knows how like the street the two dinner-rows of people who +take their stand by the street will be. The expressionless uniform +twenty houses, all to be knocked at and rung at in the same form, all +approachable by the same dull steps, all fended off by the same pattern +of railing, all with the same impracticable fire-escapes, the same +inconvenient fixtures in their heads, and everything without exception +to be taken at a high valuation--who has not dined with these? The +house so drearily out of repair, the occasional bow-window, the stuccoed +house, the newly-fronted house, the corner house with nothing but +angular rooms, the house with the blinds always down, the house with the +hatchment always up, the house where the collector has called for one +quarter of an Idea, and found nobody at home--who has not dined with +these? The house that nobody will take, and is to be had a bargain--who +does not know her? The showy house that was taken for life by the +disappointed gentleman, and which does not suit him at all--who is +unacquainted with that haunted habitation? + +Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was more than aware of Mr and Mrs +Merdle. Intruders there were in Harley Street, of whom it was not aware; +but Mr and Mrs Merdle it delighted to honour. Society was aware of +Mr and Mrs Merdle. Society had said ‘Let us license them; let us know +them.’ + +Mr Merdle was immensely rich; a man of prodigious enterprise; a +Midas without the ears, who turned all he touched to gold. He was in +everything good, from banking to building. He was in Parliament, of +course. He was in the City, necessarily. He was Chairman of this, +Trustee of that, President of the other. The weightiest of men had said +to projectors, ‘Now, what name have you got? Have you got Merdle?’ And, +the reply being in the negative, had said, ‘Then I won’t look at you.’ + +This great and fortunate man had provided that extensive bosom which +required so much room to be unfeeling enough in, with a nest of crimson +and gold some fifteen years before. It was not a bosom to repose +upon, but it was a capital bosom to hang jewels upon. Mr Merdle wanted +something to hang jewels upon, and he bought it for the purpose. Storr +and Mortimer might have married on the same speculation. + +Like all his other speculations, it was sound and successful. The jewels +showed to the richest advantage. The bosom moving in Society with +the jewels displayed upon it, attracted general admiration. Society +approving, Mr Merdle was satisfied. He was the most disinterested of +men,--did everything for Society, and got as little for himself out of +all his gain and care, as a man might. + +That is to say, it may be supposed that he got all he wanted, otherwise +with unlimited wealth he would have got it. But his desire was to the +utmost to satisfy Society (whatever that was), and take up all its +drafts upon him for tribute. He did not shine in company; he had not +very much to say for himself; he was a reserved man, with a broad, +overhanging, watchful head, that particular kind of dull red colour +in his cheeks which is rather stale than fresh, and a somewhat uneasy +expression about his coat-cuffs, as if they were in his confidence, and +had reasons for being anxious to hide his hands. In the little he said, +he was a pleasant man enough; plain, emphatic about public and private +confidence, and tenacious of the utmost deference being shown by every +one, in all things, to Society. In this same Society (if that were it +which came to his dinners, and to Mrs Merdle’s receptions and concerts), +he hardly seemed to enjoy himself much, and was mostly to be found +against walls and behind doors. Also when he went out to it, instead of +its coming home to him, he seemed a little fatigued, and upon the +whole rather more disposed for bed; but he was always cultivating it +nevertheless, and always moving in it--and always laying out money on it +with the greatest liberality. + +Mrs Merdle’s first husband had been a colonel, under whose auspices the +bosom had entered into competition with the snows of North America, and +had come off at little disadvantage in point of whiteness, and at none +in point of coldness. The colonel’s son was Mrs Merdle’s only child. He +was of a chuckle-headed, high-shouldered make, with a general appearance +of being, not so much a young man as a swelled boy. He had given so few +signs of reason, that a by-word went among his companions that his brain +had been frozen up in a mighty frost which prevailed at St John’s, New +Brunswick, at the period of his birth there, and had never thawed from +that hour. Another by-word represented him as having in his infancy, +through the negligence of a nurse, fallen out of a high window on his +head, which had been heard by responsible witnesses to crack. It is +probable that both these representations were of ex post facto +origin; the young gentleman (whose expressive name was Sparkler) being +monomaniacal in offering marriage to all manner of undesirable young +ladies, and in remarking of every successive young lady to whom he +tendered a matrimonial proposal that she was ‘a doosed fine gal--well +educated too--with no biggodd nonsense about her.’ + +A son-in-law with these limited talents, might have been a clog upon +another man; but Mr Merdle did not want a son-in-law for himself; he +wanted a son-in-law for Society. Mr Sparkler having been in the Guards, +and being in the habit of frequenting all the races, and all the +lounges, and all the parties, and being well known, Society was +satisfied with its son-in-law. This happy result Mr Merdle would have +considered well attained, though Mr Sparkler had been a more expensive +article. And he did not get Mr Sparkler by any means cheap for +Society, even as it was. + +There was a dinner giving in the Harley Street establishment, while +Little Dorrit was stitching at her father’s new shirts by his side that +night; and there were magnates from the Court and magnates from the +City, magnates from the Commons and magnates from the Lords, magnates +from the bench and magnates from the bar, Bishop magnates, Treasury +magnates, Horse Guard magnates, Admiralty magnates,--all the magnates +that keep us going, and sometimes trip us up. + +‘I am told,’ said Bishop magnate to Horse Guards, ‘that Mr Merdle has +made another enormous hit. They say a hundred thousand pounds.’ + +Horse Guards had heard two. + +Treasury had heard three. + +Bar, handling his persuasive double eye-glass, was by no means clear but +that it might be four. It was one of those happy strokes of calculation +and combination, the result of which it was difficult to estimate. It +was one of those instances of a comprehensive grasp, associated with +habitual luck and characteristic boldness, of which an age presented us +but few. But here was Brother Bellows, who had been in the great Bank +case, and who could probably tell us more. What did Brother Bellows put +this new success at? + +Brother Bellows was on his way to make his bow to the bosom, and could +only tell them in passing that he had heard it stated, with great +appearance of truth, as being worth, from first to last, half-a-million +of money. + +Admiralty said Mr Merdle was a wonderful man, Treasury said he was a +new power in the country, and would be able to buy up the whole House of +Commons. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into +the coffers of a gentleman who was always disposed to maintain the best +interests of Society. + +Mr Merdle himself was usually late on these occasions, as a man still +detained in the clutch of giant enterprises when other men had shaken +off their dwarfs for the day. On this occasion, he was the last arrival. +Treasury said Merdle’s work punished him a little. Bishop said he was +glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman +who accepted it with meekness. + +Powder! There was so much Powder in waiting, that it flavoured the +dinner. Pulverous particles got into the dishes, and Society’s meats had +a seasoning of first-rate footmen. Mr Merdle took down a countess who +was secluded somewhere in the core of an immense dress, to which she +was in the proportion of the heart to the overgrown cabbage. If so low a +simile may be admitted, the dress went down the staircase like a richly +brocaded Jack in the Green, and nobody knew what sort of small person +carried it. + +Society had everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner. +It had everything to look at, and everything to eat, and everything to +drink. It is to be hoped it enjoyed itself; for Mr Merdle’s own share of +the repast might have been paid for with eighteenpence. Mrs Merdle was +magnificent. The chief butler was the next magnificent institution of +the day. He was the stateliest man in the company. He did nothing, but +he looked on as few other men could have done. He was Mr Merdle’s +last gift to Society. Mr Merdle didn’t want him, and was put out of +countenance when the great creature looked at him; but inappeasable +Society would have him--and had got him. + +The invisible countess carried out the Green at the usual stage of +the entertainment, and the file of beauty was closed up by the bosom. +Treasury said, Juno. Bishop said, Judith. + +Bar fell into discussion with Horse Guards concerning courts-martial. +Brothers Bellows and Bench struck in. Other magnates paired off. Mr +Merdle sat silent, and looked at the table-cloth. Sometimes a magnate +addressed him, to turn the stream of his own particular discussion +towards him; but Mr Merdle seldom gave much attention to it, or did more +than rouse himself from his calculations and pass the wine. + +When they rose, so many of the magnates had something to say to Mr +Merdle individually that he held little levees by the sideboard, and +checked them off as they went out at the door. + +Treasury hoped he might venture to congratulate one of England’s +world-famed capitalists and merchant-princes (he had turned that +original sentiment in the house a few times, and it came easy to him) on +a new achievement. To extend the triumphs of such men was to extend +the triumphs and resources of the nation; and Treasury felt--he gave Mr +Merdle to understand--patriotic on the subject. + +‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘thank you. I accept your +congratulations with pride, and I am glad you approve.’ + +‘Why, I don’t unreservedly approve, my dear Mr Merdle. Because,’ +smiling Treasury turned him by the arm towards the sideboard and spoke +banteringly, ‘it never can be worth your while to come among us and help +us.’ + +Mr Merdle felt honoured by the-- + +‘No, no,’ said Treasury, ‘that is not the light in which one so +distinguished for practical knowledge and great foresight, can be +expected to regard it. If we should ever be happily enabled, by +accidentally possessing the control over circumstances, to propose +to one so eminent to--to come among us, and give us the weight of his +influence, knowledge, and character, we could only propose it to him as +a duty. In fact, as a duty that he owed to Society.’ + +Mr Merdle intimated that Society was the apple of his eye, and that its +claims were paramount to every other consideration. Treasury moved +on, and Bar came up. + +Bar, with his little insinuating jury droop, and fingering his +persuasive double eye-glass, hoped he might be excused if he mentioned +to one of the greatest converters of the root of all evil into the root +of all good, who had for a long time reflected a shining lustre on the +annals even of our commercial country--if he mentioned, disinterestedly, +and as, what we lawyers called in our pedantic way, amicus curiae, a +fact that had come by accident within his knowledge. He had been +required to look over the title of a very considerable estate in one of +the eastern counties--lying, in fact, for Mr Merdle knew we lawyers +loved to be particular, on the borders of two of the eastern counties. +Now, the title was perfectly sound, and the estate was to be purchased +by one who had the command of--Money (jury droop and persuasive +eye-glass), on remarkably advantageous terms. This had come to Bar’s +knowledge only that day, and it had occurred to him, ‘I shall have the +honour of dining with my esteemed friend Mr Merdle this evening, and, +strictly between ourselves, I will mention the opportunity.’ Such a +purchase would involve not only a great legitimate political influence, +but some half-dozen church presentations of considerable annual value. +Now, that Mr Merdle was already at no loss to discover means of +occupying even his capital, and of fully employing even his active and +vigorous intellect, Bar well knew: but he would venture to suggest that +the question arose in his mind, whether one who had deservedly gained so +high a position and so European a reputation did not owe it--we would +not say to himself, but we would say to Society, to possess himself of +such influences as these; and to exercise them--we would not say for his +own, or for his party’s, but we would say for Society’s--benefit. + +Mr Merdle again expressed himself as wholly devoted to that object of +his constant consideration, and Bar took his persuasive eye-glass up the +grand staircase. Bishop then came undesignedly sidling in the direction +of the sideboard. + +Surely the goods of this world, it occurred in an accidental way to +Bishop to remark, could scarcely be directed into happier channels than +when they accumulated under the magic touch of the wise and sagacious, +who, while they knew the just value of riches (Bishop tried here to +look as if he were rather poor himself), were aware of their importance, +judiciously governed and rightly distributed, to the welfare of our +brethren at large. + +Mr Merdle with humility expressed his conviction that Bishop couldn’t +mean him, and with inconsistency expressed his high gratification in +Bishop’s good opinion. + +Bishop then--jauntily stepping out a little with his well-shaped right +leg, as though he said to Mr Merdle ‘don’t mind the apron; a mere form!’ +put this case to his good friend: + +Whether it had occurred to his good friend, that Society might not +unreasonably hope that one so blest in his undertakings, and whose +example on his pedestal was so influential with it, would shed a little +money in the direction of a mission or so to Africa? + +Mr Merdle signifying that the idea should have his best attention, +Bishop put another case: + +Whether his good friend had at all interested himself in the proceedings +of our Combined Additional Endowed Dignitaries Committee, and whether it +had occurred to him that to shed a little money in _that_ direction might +be a great conception finely executed? + +Mr Merdle made a similar reply, and Bishop explained his reason for +inquiring. + +Society looked to such men as his good friend to do such things. It was +not that _he_ looked to them, but that Society looked to them. +Just as it was not Our Committee who wanted the Additional Endowed +Dignitaries, but it was Society that was in a state of the most +agonising uneasiness of mind until it got them. He begged to assure his +good friend that he was extremely sensible of his good friend’s regard +on all occasions for the best interests of Society; and he considered +that he was at once consulting those interests and expressing the +feeling of Society, when he wished him continued prosperity, continued +increase of riches, and continued things in general. + +Bishop then betook himself up-stairs, and the other magnates gradually +floated up after him until there was no one left below but Mr Merdle. +That gentleman, after looking at the table-cloth until the soul of the +chief butler glowed with a noble resentment, went slowly up after the +rest, and became of no account in the stream of people on the grand +staircase. Mrs Merdle was at home, the best of the jewels were hung out +to be seen, Society got what it came for, Mr Merdle drank twopennyworth +of tea in a corner and got more than he wanted. + +Among the evening magnates was a famous physician, who knew everybody, +and whom everybody knew. On entering at the door, he came upon Mr Merdle +drinking his tea in a corner, and touched him on the arm. + +Mr Merdle started. ‘Oh! It’s you!’ + +‘Any better to-day?’ + +‘No,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am no better.’ + +‘A pity I didn’t see you this morning. Pray come to me to-morrow, or let +me come to you.’ + +‘Well!’ he replied. ‘I will come to-morrow as I drive by.’ + +Bar and Bishop had both been bystanders during this short dialogue, and +as Mr Merdle was swept away by the crowd, they made their remarks upon +it to the Physician. Bar said, there was a certain point of mental +strain beyond which no man could go; that the point varied with various +textures of brain and peculiarities of constitution, as he had had +occasion to notice in several of his learned brothers; but the point of +endurance passed by a line’s breadth, depression and dyspepsia ensued. +Not to intrude on the sacred mysteries of medicine, he took it, now +(with the jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), that this was Merdle’s +case? Bishop said that when he was a young man, and had fallen for a +brief space into the habit of writing sermons on Saturdays, a habit +which all young sons of the church should sedulously avoid, he had +frequently been sensible of a depression, arising as he supposed from an +over-taxed intellect, upon which the yolk of a new-laid egg, beaten up +by the good woman in whose house he at that time lodged, with a glass +of sound sherry, nutmeg, and powdered sugar acted like a charm. Without +presuming to offer so simple a remedy to the consideration of so +profound a professor of the great healing art, he would venture to +inquire whether the strain, being by way of intricate calculations, +the spirits might not (humanly speaking) be restored to their tone by a +gentle and yet generous stimulant? + +‘Yes,’ said the physician, ‘yes, you are both right. But I may as well +tell you that I can find nothing the matter with Mr Merdle. He has +the constitution of a rhinoceros, the digestion of an ostrich, and +the concentration of an oyster. As to nerves, Mr Merdle is of a cool +temperament, and not a sensitive man: is about as invulnerable, I should +say, as Achilles. How such a man should suppose himself unwell without +reason, you may think strange. But I have found nothing the matter with +him. He may have some deep-seated recondite complaint. I can’t say. I +only say, that at present I have not found it out.’ + +There was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the bosom now displaying +precious stones in rivalry with many similar superb jewel-stands; there +was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on young Sparkler hovering about +the rooms, monomaniacally seeking any sufficiently ineligible young lady +with no nonsense about her; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint +on the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, of whom whole colonies were +present; or on any of the company. Even on himself, its shadow was faint +enough as he moved about among the throng, receiving homage. + +Mr Merdle’s complaint. Society and he had so much to do with one another +in all things else, that it is hard to imagine his complaint, if he +had one, being solely his own affair. Had he that deep-seated recondite +complaint, and did any doctor find it out? Patience, in the meantime, +the shadow of the Marshalsea wall was a real darkening influence, and +could be seen on the Dorrit Family at any stage of the sun’s course. + + + + +CHAPTER 22. A Puzzle + + +Mr Clennam did not increase in favour with the Father of the Marshalsea +in the ratio of his increasing visits. His obtuseness on the great +Testimonial question was not calculated to awaken admiration in the +paternal breast, but had rather a tendency to give offence in that +sensitive quarter, and to be regarded as a positive shortcoming in point +of gentlemanly feeling. An impression of disappointment, occasioned +by the discovery that Mr Clennam scarcely possessed that delicacy for +which, in the confidence of his nature, he had been inclined to give +him credit, began to darken the fatherly mind in connection with that +gentleman. The father went so far as to say, in his private family +circle, that he feared Mr Clennam was not a man of high instincts. +He was happy, he observed, in his public capacity as leader and +representative of the College, to receive Mr Clennam when he called to +pay his respects; but he didn’t find that he got on with him personally. +There appeared to be something (he didn’t know what it was) wanting in +him. Howbeit, the father did not fail in any outward show of politeness, +but, on the contrary, honoured him with much attention; perhaps +cherishing the hope that, although not a man of a sufficiently +brilliant and spontaneous turn of mind to repeat his former testimonial +unsolicited, it might still be within the compass of his nature to +bear the part of a responsive gentleman, in any correspondence that way +tending. + +In the threefold capacity, of the gentleman from outside who had been +accidentally locked in on the night of his first appearance, of the +gentleman from outside who had inquired into the affairs of the Father +of the Marshalsea with the stupendous idea of getting him out, and of +the gentleman from outside who took an interest in the child of the +Marshalsea, Clennam soon became a visitor of mark. He was not surprised +by the attentions he received from Mr Chivery when that officer was on +the lock, for he made little distinction between Mr Chivery’s politeness +and that of the other turnkeys. It was on one particular afternoon that +Mr Chivery surprised him all at once, and stood forth from his +companions in bold relief. + +Mr Chivery, by some artful exercise of his power of clearing the Lodge, +had contrived to rid it of all sauntering Collegians; so that Clennam, +coming out of the prison, should find him on duty alone. + +‘(Private) I ask your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Chivery in a secret manner; +‘but which way might you be going?’ + +‘I am going over the Bridge.’ He saw in Mr Chivery, with some +astonishment, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on +his lips. + +‘(Private) I ask your pardon again,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘but could you go +round by Horsemonger Lane? Could you by any means find time to look in +at that address?’ handing him a little card, printed for circulation +among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure +Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers in +Fancy Snuffs, &c. &c. + +‘(Private) It an’t tobacco business,’ said Mr Chivery. ‘The truth is, +it’s my wife. She’s wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point +respecting--yes,’ said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam’s look of +apprehension with a nod, ‘respecting _her_.’ + +‘I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.’ + +‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an’t above ten minutes out of your +way. Please to ask for _Mrs_ Chivery!’ These instructions, Mr Chivery, who +had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the +outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection of +visitors when it pleased him. + +Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address +set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small +establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working +at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a +little assortment of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little +instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail +stock in trade. + +Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the +solicitation of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he +believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat +behind the counter, and deploringly shook her head. + +‘You may see him now,’ said she, ‘if you’ll condescend to take a peep.’ + +With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little +parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very +little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths +tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two; +and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the +last mariner left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of +furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man. + +‘Our John,’ said Mrs Chivery. + +Not to be deficient in interest, Clennam asked what he might be doing +there? + +‘It’s the only change he takes,’ said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head +afresh. ‘He won’t go out, even in the back-yard, when there’s no linen; +but when there’s linen to keep the neighbours’ eyes off, he’ll sit +there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves!’ Mrs +Chivery shook her head again, put her apron in a motherly way to her +eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business. + +‘Please to take a seat, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Miss Dorrit is the +matter with Our John, sir; he’s a breaking his heart for her, and I +would wish to take the liberty to ask how it’s to be made good to his +parents when bust?’ + +Mrs Chivery, who was a comfortable-looking woman much respected about +Horsemonger Lane for her feelings and her conversation, uttered this +speech with fell composure, and immediately afterwards began again to +shake her head and dry her eyes. + +‘Sir,’ said she in continuation, ‘you are acquainted with the family, +and have interested yourself with the family, and are influential with +the family. If you can promote views calculated to make two young people +happy, let me, for Our John’s sake, and for both their sakes, implore +you so to do!’ + +‘I have been so habituated,’ returned Arthur, at a loss, ‘during +the short time I have known her, to consider Little--I have been so +habituated to consider Miss Dorrit in a light altogether removed from +that in which you present her to me, that you quite take me by surprise. +Does she know your son?’ + +‘Brought up together, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Played together.’ + +‘Does she know your son as her admirer?’ + +‘Oh! bless you, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, with a sort of triumphant +shiver, ‘she never could have seen him on a Sunday without knowing he +was that. His cane alone would have told it long ago, if nothing else +had. Young men like John don’t take to ivory hands a pinting, for +nothing. How did I first know it myself? Similarly.’ + +‘Perhaps Miss Dorrit may not be so ready as you, you see.’ + +‘Then she knows it, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘by word of mouth.’ + +‘Are you sure?’ + +‘Sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘sure and certain as in this house I am. I see +my son go out with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I see my +son come in with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I know he +done it!’ Mrs Chivery derived a surprising force of emphasis from the +foregoing circumstantiality and repetition. + +‘May I ask you how he came to fall into the desponding state which +causes you so much uneasiness?’ + +‘That,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘took place on that same day when to this +house I see that John with these eyes return. Never been himself in this +house since. Never was like what he has been since, not from the hour +when to this house seven year ago me and his father, as tenants by the +quarter, came!’ An effect in the nature of an affidavit was gained from +this speech by Mrs Chivery’s peculiar power of construction. + +‘May I venture to inquire what is your version of the matter?’ + +‘You may,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘and I will give it to you in honour and in +word as true as in this shop I stand. Our John has every one’s good word +and every one’s good wish. He played with her as a child when in that +yard a child she played. He has known her ever since. He went out upon +the Sunday afternoon when in this very parlour he had dined, and met +her, with appointment or without appointment; which, I do not pretend to +say. He made his offer to her. Her brother and sister is high in their +views, and against Our John. Her father is all for himself in his views +and against sharing her with any one. Under which circumstances she +has answered Our John, “No, John, I cannot have you, I cannot have +any husband, it is not my intentions ever to become a wife, it is my +intentions to be always a sacrifice, farewell, find another worthy of +you, and forget me!” This is the way in which she is doomed to be a +constant slave to them that are not worthy that a constant slave she +unto them should be. This is the way in which Our John has come to find +no pleasure but in taking cold among the linen, and in showing in that +yard, as in that yard I have myself shown you, a broken-down ruin that +goes home to his mother’s heart!’ Here the good woman pointed to the +little window, whence her son might be seen sitting disconsolate in +the tuneless groves; and again shook her head and wiped her eyes, and +besought him, for the united sakes of both the young people, to exercise +his influence towards the bright reversal of these dismal events. + +She was so confident in her exposition of the case, and it was so +undeniably founded on correct premises in so far as the relative +positions of Little Dorrit and her family were concerned, that Clennam +could not feel positive on the other side. He had come to attach to +Little Dorrit an interest so peculiar--an interest that removed her +from, while it grew out of, the common and coarse things surrounding +her--that he found it disappointing, disagreeable, almost painful, to +suppose her in love with young Mr Chivery in the back-yard, or any such +person. On the other hand, he reasoned with himself that she was just +as good and just as true in love with him, as not in love with him; +and that to make a kind of domesticated fairy of her, on the penalty +of isolation at heart from the only people she knew, would be but a +weakness of his own fancy, and not a kind one. Still, her youthful and +ethereal appearance, her timid manner, the charm of her sensitive voice +and eyes, the very many respects in which she had interested him out +of her own individuality, and the strong difference between herself and +those about her, were not in unison, and were determined not to be in +unison, with this newly presented idea. + +He told the worthy Mrs Chivery, after turning these things over in his +mind--he did that, indeed, while she was yet speaking--that he might be +relied upon to do his utmost at all times to promote the happiness of +Miss Dorrit, and to further the wishes of her heart if it were in his +power to do so, and if he could discover what they were. At the same +time he cautioned her against assumptions and appearances; enjoined +strict silence and secrecy, lest Miss Dorrit should be made unhappy; and +particularly advised her to endeavour to win her son’s confidence and so +to make quite sure of the state of the case. Mrs Chivery considered the +latter precaution superfluous, but said she would try. She shook her +head as if she had not derived all the comfort she had fondly expected +from this interview, but thanked him nevertheless for the trouble he had +kindly taken. They then parted good friends, and Arthur walked away. + +The crowd in the street jostling the crowd in his mind, and the two +crowds making a confusion, he avoided London Bridge, and turned off in +the quieter direction of the Iron Bridge. He had scarcely set foot upon +it, when he saw Little Dorrit walking on before him. It was a pleasant +day, with a light breeze blowing, and she seemed to have that minute +come there for air. He had left her in her father’s room within an hour. + +It was a timely chance, favourable to his wish of observing her face +and manner when no one else was by. He quickened his pace; but before he +reached her, she turned her head. + +‘Have I startled you?’ he asked. + +‘I thought I knew the step,’ she answered, hesitating. + +‘And did you know it, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have expected +mine.’ + +‘I did not expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it--sounded +like yours.’ + +‘Are you going further?’ + +‘No, sir, I am only walking here for a little change.’ + +They walked together, and she recovered her confiding manner with him, +and looked up in his face as she said, after glancing around: + +‘It is so strange. Perhaps you can hardly understand it. I sometimes +have a sensation as if it was almost unfeeling to walk here.’ + +‘Unfeeling?’ + +‘To see the river, and so much sky, and so many objects, and such change +and motion. Then to go back, you know, and find him in the same cramped +place.’ + +‘Ah yes! But going back, you must remember that you take with you the +spirit and influence of such things to cheer him.’ + +‘Do I? I hope I may! I am afraid you fancy too much, sir, and make me +out too powerful. If you were in prison, could I bring such comfort to +you?’ + +‘Yes, Little Dorrit, I am sure of it.’ + +He gathered from a tremor on her lip, and a passing shadow of great +agitation on her face, that her mind was with her father. He remained +silent for a few moments, that she might regain her composure. The +Little Dorrit, trembling on his arm, was less in unison than ever with +Mrs Chivery’s theory, and yet was not irreconcilable with a new fancy +which sprung up within him, that there might be some one else in the +hopeless--newer fancy still--in the hopeless unattainable distance. + +They turned, and Clennam said, Here was Maggy coming! Little Dorrit +looked up, surprised, and they confronted Maggy, who brought herself +at sight of them to a dead stop. She had been trotting along, so +preoccupied and busy that she had not recognised them until they turned +upon her. She was now in a moment so conscience-stricken that her very +basket partook of the change. + +‘Maggy, you promised me to stop near father.’ + +‘So I would, Little Mother, only he wouldn’t let me. If he takes and +sends me out I must go. If he takes and says, “Maggy, you hurry away and +back with that letter, and you shall have a sixpence if the answer’s a +good ‘un,” I must take it. Lor, Little Mother, what’s a poor thing of +ten year old to do? And if Mr Tip--if he happens to be a coming in as +I come out, and if he says “Where are you going, Maggy?” and if I says, +“I’m a going So and So,” and if he says, “I’ll have a Try too,” and if +he goes into the George and writes a letter and if he gives it me and +says, “Take that one to the same place, and if the answer’s a good ‘un +I’ll give you a shilling,” it ain’t my fault, mother!’ + +Arthur read, in Little Dorrit’s downcast eyes, to whom she foresaw that +the letters were addressed. + +‘I’m a going So and So. There! That’s where I am a going to,’ said +Maggy. ‘I’m a going So and So. It ain’t you, Little Mother, that’s got +anything to do with it--it’s you, you know,’ said Maggy, addressing +Arthur. ‘You’d better come, So and So, and let me take and give ‘em to +you.’ + +‘We will not be so particular as that, Maggy. Give them me here,’ said +Clennam in a low voice. + +‘Well, then, come across the road,’ answered Maggy in a very loud +whisper. ‘Little Mother wasn’t to know nothing of it, and she would +never have known nothing of it if you had only gone So and So, instead +of bothering and loitering about. It ain’t my fault. I must do what I am +told. They ought to be ashamed of themselves for telling me.’ + +Clennam crossed to the other side, and hurriedly opened the letters. +That from the father mentioned that most unexpectedly finding himself in +the novel position of having been disappointed of a remittance from +the City on which he had confidently counted, he took up his pen, being +restrained by the unhappy circumstance of his incarceration during +three-and-twenty years (doubly underlined), from coming himself, as +he would otherwise certainly have done--took up his pen to entreat Mr +Clennam to advance him the sum of Three Pounds Ten Shillings upon his +I.O.U., which he begged to enclose. That from the son set forth that +Mr Clennam would, he knew, be gratified to hear that he had at +length obtained permanent employment of a highly satisfactory nature, +accompanied with every prospect of complete success in life; but that +the temporary inability of his employer to pay him his arrears of salary +to that date (in which condition said employer had appealed to that +generous forbearance in which he trusted he should never be wanting +towards a fellow-creature), combined with the fraudulent conduct of a +false friend and the present high price of provisions, had reduced +him to the verge of ruin, unless he could by a quarter before six that +evening raise the sum of eight pounds. This sum, Mr Clennam would be +happy to learn, he had, through the promptitude of several friends +who had a lively confidence in his probity, already raised, with the +exception of a trifling balance of one pound seventeen and fourpence; +the loan of which balance, for the period of one month, would be fraught +with the usual beneficent consequences. + +These letters Clennam answered with the aid of his pencil and +pocket-book, on the spot; sending the father what he asked for, and +excusing himself from compliance with the demand of the son. He then +commissioned Maggy to return with his replies, and gave her the +shilling of which the failure of her supplemental enterprise would have +disappointed her otherwise. + +When he rejoined Little Dorrit, and they had begun walking as before, +she said all at once: + +‘I think I had better go. I had better go home.’ + +‘Don’t be distressed,’ said Clennam, ‘I have answered the letters. They +were nothing. You know what they were. They were nothing.’ + +‘But I am afraid,’ she returned, ‘to leave him, I am afraid to leave +any of them. When I am gone, they pervert--but they don’t mean it--even +Maggy.’ + +‘It was a very innocent commission that she undertook, poor thing. And +in keeping it secret from you, she supposed, no doubt, that she was only +saving you uneasiness.’ + +‘Yes, I hope so, I hope so. But I had better go home! It was but the +other day that my sister told me I had become so used to the prison that +I had its tone and character. It must be so. I am sure it must be when I +see these things. My place is there. I am better there, it is unfeeling +in me to be here, when I can do the least thing there. Good-bye. I had +far better stay at home!’ + +The agonised way in which she poured this out, as if it burst of itself +from her suppressed heart, made it difficult for Clennam to keep the +tears from his eyes as he saw and heard her. + +‘Don’t call it home, my child!’ he entreated. ‘It is always painful to +me to hear you call it home.’ + +‘But it is home! What else can I call home? Why should I ever forget it +for a single moment?’ + +‘You never do, dear Little Dorrit, in any good and true service.’ + +‘I hope not, O I hope not! But it is better for me to stay there; much +better, much more dutiful, much happier. Please don’t go with me, let me +go by myself. Good-bye, God bless you. Thank you, thank you.’ + +He felt that it was better to respect her entreaty, and did not move +while her slight form went quickly away from him. When it had fluttered +out of sight, he turned his face towards the water and stood thinking. + +She would have been distressed at any time by this discovery of the +letters; but so much so, and in that unrestrainable way? + +No. + +When she had seen her father begging with his threadbare disguise on, +when she had entreated him not to give her father money, she had +been distressed, but not like this. Something had made her keenly and +additionally sensitive just now. Now, was there some one in the hopeless +unattainable distance? Or had the suspicion been brought into his mind, +by his own associations of the troubled river running beneath the bridge +with the same river higher up, its changeless tune upon the prow of the +ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the peaceful flowing of the stream, +here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet? + +He thought of his poor child, Little Dorrit, for a long time there; he +thought of her going home; he thought of her in the night; he thought +of her when the day came round again. And the poor child Little Dorrit +thought of him--too faithfully, ah, too faithfully!--in the shadow of +the Marshalsea wall. + + + + +CHAPTER 23. Machinery in Motion + + +Mr Meagles bestirred himself with such prompt activity in the matter of +the negotiation with Daniel Doyce which Clennam had entrusted to him, +that he soon brought it into business train, and called on Clennam at +nine o’clock one morning to make his report. + +‘Doyce is highly gratified by your good opinion,’ he opened the business +by saying, ‘and desires nothing so much as that you should examine the +affairs of the Works for yourself, and entirely understand them. He has +handed me the keys of all his books and papers--here they are jingling +in this pocket--and the only charge he has given me is “Let Mr Clennam +have the means of putting himself on a perfect equality with me as to +knowing whatever I know. If it should come to nothing after all, he +will respect my confidence. Unless I was sure of that to begin with, I +should have nothing to do with him.” And there, you see,’ said Mr +Meagles, ‘you have Daniel Doyce all over.’ + +‘A very honourable character.’ + +‘Oh, yes, to be sure. Not a doubt of it. Odd, but very honourable. Very +odd though. Now, would you believe, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, with +a hearty enjoyment of his friend’s eccentricity, ‘that I had a whole +morning in What’s-his-name Yard--’ + +‘Bleeding Heart?’ + +‘A whole morning in Bleeding Heart Yard, before I could induce him to +pursue the subject at all?’ + +‘How was that?’ + +‘How was that, my friend? I no sooner mentioned your name in connection +with it than he declared off.’ + +‘Declared off on my account?’ + +‘I no sooner mentioned your name, Clennam, than he said, “That will +never do!” What did he mean by that? I asked him. No matter, Meagles; +that would never do. Why would it never do? You’ll hardly believe it, +Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, laughing within himself, ‘but it came out +that it would never do, because you and he, walking down to Twickenham +together, had glided into a friendly conversation in the course of which +he had referred to his intention of taking a partner, supposing at the +time that you were as firmly and finally settled as St Paul’s Cathedral. +“Whereas,” says he, “Mr Clennam might now believe, if I entertained his +proposition, that I had a sinister and designing motive in what was open +free speech. Which I can’t bear,” says he, “which I really am too proud +to bear.”’ + +‘I should as soon suspect--’ + +‘Of course you would,’ interrupted Mr Meagles, ‘and so I told him. But +it took a morning to scale that wall; and I doubt if any other man +than myself (he likes me of old) could have got his leg over it. Well, +Clennam. This business-like obstacle surmounted, he then stipulated that +before resuming with you I should look over the books and form my own +opinion. I looked over the books, and formed my own opinion. “Is it, on +the whole, for, or against?” says he. “For,” says I. “Then,” says he, +“you may now, my good friend, give Mr Clennam the means of forming +his opinion. To enable him to do which, without bias and with perfect +freedom, I shall go out of town for a week.” And he’s gone,’ said Mr +Meagles; ‘that’s the rich conclusion of the thing.’ + +‘Leaving me,’ said Clennam, ‘with a high sense, I must say, of his +candour and his--’ + +‘Oddity,’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I should think so!’ + +It was not exactly the word on Clennam’s lips, but he forbore to +interrupt his good-humoured friend. + +‘And now,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘you can begin to look into matters as soon +as you think proper. I have undertaken to explain where you may want +explanation, but to be strictly impartial, and to do nothing more.’ + +They began their perquisitions in Bleeding Heart Yard that same +forenoon. Little peculiarities were easily to be detected by experienced +eyes in Mr Doyce’s way of managing his affairs, but they almost always +involved some ingenious simplification of a difficulty, and some plain +road to the desired end. That his papers were in arrear, and that he +stood in need of assistance to develop the capacity of his business, was +clear enough; but all the results of his undertakings during many years +were distinctly set forth, and were ascertainable with ease. Nothing had +been done for the purposes of the pending investigation; everything was +in its genuine working dress, and in a certain honest rugged order. The +calculations and entries, in his own hand, of which there were many, +were bluntly written, and with no very neat precision; but were always +plain and directed straight to the purpose. It occurred to Arthur that +a far more elaborate and taking show of business--such as the records of +the Circumlocution Office made perhaps--might be far less serviceable, +as being meant to be far less intelligible. + +Three or four days of steady application tendered him master of all the +facts it was essential to become acquainted with. Mr Meagles was at hand +the whole time, always ready to illuminate any dim place with the bright +little safety-lamp belonging to the scales and scoop. Between them they +agreed upon the sum it would be fair to offer for the purchase of a +half-share in the business, and then Mr Meagles unsealed a paper in +which Daniel Doyce had noted the amount at which he valued it; which was +even something less. Thus, when Daniel came back, he found the affair as +good as concluded. + +‘And I may now avow, Mr Clennam,’ said he, with a cordial shake of the +hand, ‘that if I had looked high and low for a partner, I believe I +could not have found one more to my mind.’ + +‘I say the same,’ said Clennam. + +‘And I say of both of you,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘that you are well +matched. You keep him in check, Clennam, with your common sense, and you +stick to the Works, Dan, with your--’ + +‘Uncommon sense?’ suggested Daniel, with his quiet smile. + +‘You may call it so, if you like--and each of you will be a right hand +to the other. Here’s my own right hand upon it, as a practical man, to +both of you.’ + +The purchase was completed within a month. It left Arthur in possession +of private personal means not exceeding a few hundred pounds; but it +opened to him an active and promising career. The three friends dined +together on the auspicious occasion; the factory and the factory wives +and children made holiday and dined too; even Bleeding Heart Yard +dined and was full of meat. Two months had barely gone by in all, when +Bleeding Heart Yard had become so familiar with short-commons again, +that the treat was forgotten there; when nothing seemed new in the +partnership but the paint of the inscription on the door-posts, DOYCE +AND CLENNAM; when it appeared even to Clennam himself, that he had had +the affairs of the firm in his mind for years. + +The little counting-house reserved for his own occupation, was a room of +wood and glass at the end of a long low workshop, filled with benches, +and vices, and tools, and straps, and wheels; which, when they were +in gear with the steam-engine, went tearing round as though they had a +suicidal mission to grind the business to dust and tear the factory to +pieces. A communication of great trap-doors in the floor and roof with +the workshop above and the workshop below, made a shaft of light in +this perspective, which brought to Clennam’s mind the child’s old +picture-book, where similar rays were the witnesses of Abel’s +murder. The noises were sufficiently removed and shut out from the +counting-house to blend into a busy hum, interspersed with periodical +clinks and thumps. The patient figures at work were swarthy with the +filings of iron and steel that danced on every bench and bubbled up +through every chink in the planking. The workshop was arrived at by a +step-ladder from the outer yard below, where it served as a shelter for +the large grindstone where tools were sharpened. The whole had at once +a fanciful and practical air in Clennam’s eyes, which was a welcome +change; and, as often as he raised them from his first work of getting +the array of business documents into perfect order, he glanced at these +things with a feeling of pleasure in his pursuit that was new to him. + +Raising his eyes thus one day, he was surprised to see a bonnet +labouring up the step-ladder. The unusual apparition was followed by +another bonnet. He then perceived that the first bonnet was on the head +of Mr F.’s Aunt, and that the second bonnet was on the head of Flora, +who seemed to have propelled her legacy up the steep ascent with +considerable difficulty. + +Though not altogether enraptured at the sight of these visitors, Clennam +lost no time in opening the counting-house door, and extricating them +from the workshop; a rescue which was rendered the more necessary by Mr +F.’s Aunt already stumbling over some impediment, and menacing steam +power as an Institution with a stony reticule she carried. + +‘Good gracious, Arthur,--I should say Mr Clennam, far more proper--the +climb we have had to get up here and how ever to get down again without +a fire-escape and Mr F.’s Aunt slipping through the steps and bruised +all over and you in the machinery and foundry way too only think, and +never told us!’ + +Thus, Flora, out of breath. Meanwhile, Mr F.’s Aunt rubbed her esteemed +insteps with her umbrella, and vindictively glared. + +‘Most unkind never to have come back to see us since that day, though +naturally it was not to be expected that there should be any attraction +at _our_ house and you were much more pleasantly engaged, that’s pretty +certain, and is she fair or dark blue eyes or black I wonder, not that +I expect that she should be anything but a perfect contrast to me in all +particulars for I am a disappointment as I very well know and you are +quite right to be devoted no doubt though what I am saying Arthur never +mind I hardly know myself Good gracious!’ + +By this time he had placed chairs for them in the counting-house. As +Flora dropped into hers, she bestowed the old look upon him. + +‘And to think of Doyce and Clennam, and who Doyce can be,’ said Flora; +‘delightful man no doubt and married perhaps or perhaps a daughter, now +has he really? then one understands the partnership and sees it all, +don’t tell me anything about it for I know I have no claim to ask the +question the golden chain that once was forged being snapped and very +proper.’ + +Flora put her hand tenderly on his, and gave him another of the youthful +glances. + +‘Dear Arthur--force of habit, Mr Clennam every way more delicate and +adapted to existing circumstances--I must beg to be excused for taking +the liberty of this intrusion but I thought I might so far presume upon +old times for ever faded never more to bloom as to call with Mr F.’s +Aunt to congratulate and offer best wishes, A great deal superior to +China not to be denied and much nearer though higher up!’ + +‘I am very happy to see you,’ said Clennam, ‘and I thank you, Flora, +very much for your kind remembrance.’ + +‘More than I can say myself at any rate,’ returned Flora, ‘for I might +have been dead and buried twenty distinct times over and no doubt +whatever should have been before you had genuinely remembered Me or +anything like it in spite of which one last remark I wish to make, one +last explanation I wish to offer--’ + +‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur remonstrated in alarm. + +‘Oh not that disagreeable name, say Flora!’ + +‘Flora, is it worth troubling yourself afresh to enter into +explanations? I assure you none are needed. I am satisfied--I am +perfectly satisfied.’ + +A diversion was occasioned here, by Mr F.’s Aunt making the following +inexorable and awful statement: + +‘There’s mile-stones on the Dover road!’ + +With such mortal hostility towards the human race did she discharge this +missile, that Clennam was quite at a loss how to defend himself; the +rather as he had been already perplexed in his mind by the honour of a +visit from this venerable lady, when it was plain she held him in the +utmost abhorrence. He could not but look at her with disconcertment, as +she sat breathing bitterness and scorn, and staring leagues away. Flora, +however, received the remark as if it had been of a most apposite and +agreeable nature; approvingly observing aloud that Mr F.’s Aunt had a +great deal of spirit. Stimulated either by this compliment, or by her +burning indignation, that illustrious woman then added, ‘Let him meet +it if he can!’ And, with a rigid movement of her stony reticule (an +appendage of great size and of a fossil appearance), indicated that +Clennam was the unfortunate person at whom the challenge was hurled. + +‘One last remark,’ resumed Flora, ‘I was going to say I wish to make one +last explanation I wish to offer, Mr F.’s Aunt and myself would not have +intruded on business hours Mr F. having been in business and though the +wine trade still business is equally business call it what you will and +business habits are just the same as witness Mr F. himself who had his +slippers always on the mat at ten minutes before six in the afternoon +and his boots inside the fender at ten minutes before eight in the +morning to the moment in all weathers light or dark--would not therefore +have intruded without a motive which being kindly meant it may be hoped +will be kindly taken Arthur, Mr Clennam far more proper, even Doyce and +Clennam probably more business-like.’ + +‘Pray say nothing in the way of apology,’ Arthur entreated. ‘You are +always welcome.’ + +‘Very polite of you to say so Arthur--cannot remember Mr Clennam until +the word is out, such is the habit of times for ever fled, and so true +it is that oft in the stilly night ere slumber’s chain has bound people, +fond memory brings the light of other days around people--very polite +but more polite than true I am afraid, for to go into the machinery +business without so much as sending a line or a card to papa--I don’t +say me though there was a time but that is past and stern reality has +now my gracious never mind--does not look like it you must confess.’ + +Even Flora’s commas seemed to have fled on this occasion; she was so +much more disjointed and voluble than in the preceding interview. + +‘Though indeed,’ she hurried on, ‘nothing else is to be expected and why +should it be expected and if it’s not to be expected why should it be, +and I am far from blaming you or any one, When your mama and my papa +worried us to death and severed the golden bowl--I mean bond but I dare +say you know what I mean and if you don’t you don’t lose much and care +just as little I will venture to add--when they severed the golden bond +that bound us and threw us into fits of crying on the sofa nearly choked +at least myself everything was changed and in giving my hand to Mr F. I +know I did so with my eyes open but he was so very unsettled and in such +low spirits that he had distractedly alluded to the river if not oil of +something from the chemist’s and I did it for the best.’ + +‘My good Flora, we settled that before. It was all quite right.’ + +‘It’s perfectly clear you think so,’ returned Flora, ‘for you take it +very coolly, if I hadn’t known it to be China I should have guessed +myself the Polar regions, dear Mr Clennam you are right however and I +cannot blame you but as to Doyce and Clennam papa’s property being about +here we heard it from Pancks and but for him we never should have heard +one word about it I am satisfied.’ + +‘No, no, don’t say that.’ + +‘What nonsense not to say it Arthur--Doyce and Clennam--easier and less +trying to me than Mr Clennam--when I know it and you know it too and +can’t deny it.’ + +‘But I do deny it, Flora. I should soon have made you a friendly visit.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Flora, tossing her head. ‘I dare say!’ and she gave him +another of the old looks. ‘However when Pancks told us I made up my mind +that Mr F.’s Aunt and I would come and call because when papa--which was +before that--happened to mention her name to me and to say that you were +interested in her I said at the moment Good gracious why not have her +here then when there’s anything to do instead of putting it out.’ + +‘When you say Her,’ observed Clennam, by this time pretty well +bewildered, ‘do you mean Mr F.’s--’ + +‘My goodness, Arthur--Doyce and Clennam really easier to me with old +remembrances--who ever heard of Mr F.’s Aunt doing needlework and going +out by the day?’ + +‘Going out by the day! Do you speak of Little Dorrit?’ + +‘Why yes of course,’ returned Flora; ‘and of all the strangest names I +ever heard the strangest, like a place down in the country with a +turnpike, or a favourite pony or a puppy or a bird or something from a +seed-shop to be put in a garden or a flower-pot and come up speckled.’ + +‘Then, Flora,’ said Arthur, with a sudden interest in the conversation, +‘Mr Casby was so kind as to mention Little Dorrit to you, was he? What +did he say?’ + +‘Oh you know what papa is,’ rejoined Flora, ‘and how aggravatingly he +sits looking beautiful and turning his thumbs over and over one another +till he makes one giddy if one keeps one’s eyes upon him, he said when +we were talking of you--I don’t know who began the subject Arthur (Doyce +and Clennam) but I am sure it wasn’t me, at least I hope not but you +really must excuse my confessing more on that point.’ + +‘Certainly,’ said Arthur. ‘By all means.’ + +‘You are very ready,’ pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in a +captivating bashfulness, ‘that I must admit, Papa said you had spoken of +her in an earnest way and I said what I have told you and that’s all.’ + +‘That’s all?’ said Arthur, a little disappointed. + +‘Except that when Pancks told us of your having embarked in this +business and with difficulty persuaded us that it was really you I said +to Mr F.’s Aunt then we would come and ask you if it would be agreeable +to all parties that she should be engaged at our house when required +for I know she often goes to your mama’s and I know that your mama has +a very touchy temper Arthur--Doyce and Clennam--or I never might have +married Mr F. and might have been at this hour but I am running into +nonsense.’ + +‘It was very kind of you, Flora, to think of this.’ + +Poor Flora rejoined with a plain sincerity which became her better than +her youngest glances, that she was glad he thought so. She said it with +so much heart that Clennam would have given a great deal to buy his +old character of her on the spot, and throw it and the mermaid away for +ever. + +‘I think, Flora,’ he said, ‘that the employment you can give Little +Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her--’ + +‘Yes and I will,’ said Flora, quickly. + +‘I am sure of it--will be a great assistance and support to her. I do +not feel that I have the right to tell you what I know of her, for I +acquired the knowledge confidentially, and under circumstances that +bind me to silence. But I have an interest in the little creature, and +a respect for her that I cannot express to you. Her life has been one +of such trial and devotion, and such quiet goodness, as you can scarcely +imagine. I can hardly think of her, far less speak of her, without +feeling moved. Let that feeling represent what I could tell you, and +commit her to your friendliness with my thanks.’ + +Once more he put out his hand frankly to poor Flora; once more poor +Flora couldn’t accept it frankly, found it worth nothing openly, must +make the old intrigue and mystery of it. As much to her own enjoyment as +to his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it. +Then, looking towards the glass front of the counting-house, and seeing +two figures approaching, she cried with infinite relish, ‘Papa! Hush, +Arthur, for Mercy’s sake!’ and tottered back to her chair with an +amazing imitation of being in danger of swooning, in the dread surprise +and maidenly flutter of her spirits. + +The Patriarch, meanwhile, came inanely beaming towards the +counting-house in the wake of Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him, +towed him in, and retired to his own moorings in a corner. + +‘I heard from Flora,’ said the Patriarch with his benevolent smile, +‘that she was coming to call, coming to call. And being out, I thought +I’d come also, thought I’d come also.’ + +The benign wisdom he infused into this declaration (not of itself +profound), by means of his blue eyes, his shining head, and his long +white hair, was most impressive. It seemed worth putting down among the +noblest sentiments enunciated by the best of men. Also, when he said to +Clennam, seating himself in the proffered chair, ‘And you are in a new +business, Mr Clennam? I wish you well, sir, I wish you well!’ he seemed +to have done benevolent wonders. + +‘Mrs Finching has been telling me, sir,’ said Arthur, after making his +acknowledgments; the relict of the late Mr F. meanwhile protesting, with +a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; ‘that she hopes +occasionally to employ the young needlewoman you recommended to my +mother. For which I have been thanking her.’ + +The Patriarch turning his head in a lumbering way towards Pancks, that +assistant put up the note-book in which he had been absorbed, and took +him in tow. + +‘You didn’t recommend her, you know,’ said Pancks; ‘how could you? You +knew nothing about her, you didn’t. The name was mentioned to you, and +you passed it on. That’s what _you_ did.’ + +‘Well!’ said Clennam. ‘As she justifies any recommendation, it is much +the same thing.’ + +‘You are glad she turns out well,’ said Pancks, ‘but it wouldn’t have +been your fault if she had turned out ill. The credit’s not yours as it +is, and the blame wouldn’t have been yours as it might have been. You +gave no guarantee. You knew nothing about her.’ + +‘You are not acquainted, then,’ said Arthur, hazarding a random question, +‘with any of her family?’ + +‘Acquainted with any of her family?’ returned Pancks. ‘How should you be +acquainted with any of her family? You never heard of ‘em. You can’t +be acquainted with people you never heard of, can you? You should think +not!’ + +All this time the Patriarch sat serenely smiling; nodding or shaking his +head benevolently, as the case required. + +‘As to being a reference,’ said Pancks, ‘you know, in a general way, +what being a reference means. It’s all your eye, that is! Look at your +tenants down the Yard here. They’d all be references for one another, +if you’d let ‘em. What would be the good of letting ‘em? It’s no +satisfaction to be done by two men instead of one. One’s enough. A +person who can’t pay, gets another person who can’t pay, to guarantee +that he can pay. Like a person with two wooden legs getting another +person with two wooden legs, to guarantee that he has got two natural +legs. It don’t make either of them able to do a walking match. And four +wooden legs are more troublesome to you than two, when you don’t want +any.’ Mr Pancks concluded by blowing off that steam of his. + +A momentary silence that ensued was broken by Mr F.’s Aunt, who had been +sitting upright in a cataleptic state since her last public remark. She +now underwent a violent twitch, calculated to produce a startling effect +on the nerves of the uninitiated, and with the deadliest animosity +observed: + +‘You can’t make a head and brains out of a brass knob with nothing in +it. You couldn’t do it when your Uncle George was living; much less when +he’s dead.’ + +Mr Pancks was not slow to reply, with his usual calmness, ‘Indeed, +ma’am! Bless my soul! I’m surprised to hear it.’ Despite his presence of +mind, however, the speech of Mr F.’s Aunt produced a depressing effect +on the little assembly; firstly, because it was impossible to disguise +that Clennam’s unoffending head was the particular temple of reason +depreciated; and secondly, because nobody ever knew on these occasions +whose Uncle George was referred to, or what spectral presence might be +invoked under that appellation. + +Therefore Flora said, though still not without a certain boastfulness +and triumph in her legacy, that Mr F.’s Aunt was ‘very lively to-day, +and she thought they had better go.’ But Mr F.’s Aunt proved so lively +as to take the suggestion in unexpected dudgeon and declare that she +would not go; adding, with several injurious expressions, that if +‘He’--too evidently meaning Clennam--wanted to get rid of her, ‘let +him chuck her out of winder;’ and urgently expressing her desire to see +‘Him’ perform that ceremony. + +In this dilemma, Mr Pancks, whose resources appeared equal to any +emergency in the Patriarchal waters, slipped on his hat, slipped out at +the counting-house door, and slipped in again a moment afterwards with +an artificial freshness upon him, as if he had been in the country for +some weeks. ‘Why, bless my heart, ma’am!’ said Mr Pancks, rubbing up his +hair in great astonishment, ‘is that you? How do you _do_, ma’am? You +are looking charming to-day! I am delighted to see you. Favour me with +your arm, ma’am; we’ll have a little walk together, you and me, if +you’ll honour me with your company.’ And so escorted Mr F.’s Aunt down +the private staircase of the counting-house with great gallantry and +success. The patriarchal Mr Casby then rose with the air of having done +it himself, and blandly followed: leaving his daughter, as she followed +in her turn, to remark to her former lover in a distracted whisper +(which she very much enjoyed), that they had drained the cup of life to +the dregs; and further to hint mysteriously that the late Mr F. was at +the bottom of it. + +Alone again, Clennam became a prey to his old doubts in reference to his +mother and Little Dorrit, and revolved the old thoughts and suspicions. +They were all in his mind, blending themselves with the duties he was +mechanically discharging, when a shadow on his papers caused him to look +up for the cause. The cause was Mr Pancks. With his hat thrown back upon +his ears as if his wiry prongs of hair had darted up like springs and +cast it off, with his jet-black beads of eyes inquisitively sharp, with +the fingers of his right hand in his mouth that he might bite the nails, +and with the fingers of his left hand in reserve in his pocket for +another course, Mr Pancks cast his shadow through the glass upon the +books and papers. + +Mr Pancks asked, with a little inquiring twist of his head, if he +might come in again? Clennam replied with a nod of his head in the +affirmative. Mr Pancks worked his way in, came alongside the desk, made +himself fast by leaning his arms upon it, and started conversation with +a puff and a snort. + +‘Mr F.’s Aunt is appeased, I hope?’ said Clennam. + +‘All right, sir,’ said Pancks. + +‘I am so unfortunate as to have awakened a strong animosity in the +breast of that lady,’ said Clennam. ‘Do you know why?’ + +‘Does _she_ know why?’ said Pancks. + +‘I suppose not.’ + +‘_I_ suppose not,’ said Pancks. + +He took out his note-book, opened it, shut it, dropped it into his hat, +which was beside him on the desk, and looked in at it as it lay at the +bottom of the hat: all with a great appearance of consideration. + +‘Mr Clennam,’ he then began, ‘I am in want of information, sir.’ + +‘Connected with this firm?’ asked Clennam. + +‘No,’ said Pancks. + +‘With what then, Mr Pancks? That is to say, assuming that you want it of +me.’ + +‘Yes, sir; yes, I want it of you,’ said Pancks, ‘if I can persuade you +to furnish it. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. Dictionary order. Dorrit. +That’s the name, sir?’ + +Mr Pancks blew off his peculiar noise again, and fell to at his +right-hand nails. Arthur looked searchingly at him; he returned the +look. + +‘I don’t understand you, Mr Pancks.’ + +‘That’s the name that I want to know about.’ + +‘And what do you want to know?’ + +‘Whatever you can and will tell me.’ This comprehensive summary of his +desires was not discharged without some heavy labouring on the part of +Mr Pancks’s machinery. + +‘This is a singular visit, Mr Pancks. It strikes me as rather +extraordinary that you should come, with such an object, to me.’ + +‘It may be all extraordinary together,’ returned Pancks. ‘It may be out +of the ordinary course, and yet be business. In short, it is business. I +am a man of business. What business have I in this present world, except +to stick to business? No business.’ + +With his former doubt whether this dry hard personage were quite in +earnest, Clennam again turned his eyes attentively upon his face. It +was as scrubby and dingy as ever, and as eager and quick as ever, and he +could see nothing lurking in it that was at all expressive of a latent +mockery that had seemed to strike upon his ear in the voice. + +‘Now,’ said Pancks, ‘to put this business on its own footing, it’s not +my proprietor’s.’ + +‘Do you refer to Mr Casby as your proprietor?’ + +Pancks nodded. ‘My proprietor. Put a case. Say, at my proprietor’s I +hear name--name of young person Mr Clennam wants to serve. Say, name +first mentioned to my proprietor by Plornish in the Yard. Say, I go to +Plornish. Say, I ask Plornish as a matter of business for information. +Say, Plornish, though six weeks in arrear to my proprietor, declines. +Say, Mrs Plornish declines. Say, both refer to Mr Clennam. Put the +case.’ + +‘Well?’ + +‘Well, sir,’ returned Pancks, ‘say, I come to him. Say, here I am.’ + +With those prongs of hair sticking up all over his head, and his breath +coming and going very hard and short, the busy Pancks fell back a step +(in Tug metaphor, took half a turn astern) as if to show his dingy hull +complete, then forged a-head again, and directed his quick glance by +turns into his hat where his note-book was, and into Clennam’s face. + +‘Mr Pancks, not to trespass on your grounds of mystery, I will be as +plain with you as I can. Let me ask two questions. First--’ + +‘All right!’ said Pancks, holding up his dirty forefinger with his +broken nail. ‘I see! “What’s your motive?”’ + +‘Exactly.’ + +‘Motive,’ said Pancks, ‘good. Nothing to do with my proprietor; not +stateable at present, ridiculous to state at present; but good. +Desiring to serve young person, name of Dorrit,’ said Pancks, with his +forefinger still up as a caution. ‘Better admit motive to be good.’ + +‘Secondly, and lastly, what do you want to know?’ + +Mr Pancks fished up his note-book before the question was put, and +buttoning it with care in an inner breast-pocket, and looking straight +at Clennam all the time, replied with a pause and a puff, ‘I want +supplementary information of any sort.’ + +Clennam could not withhold a smile, as the panting little steam-tug, so +useful to that unwieldy ship, the Casby, waited on and watched him as if +it were seeking an opportunity of running in and rifling him of all he +wanted before he could resist its manoeuvres; though there was that in +Mr Pancks’s eagerness, too, which awakened many wondering speculations +in his mind. After a little consideration, he resolved to supply Mr +Pancks with such leading information as it was in his power to impart +him; well knowing that Mr Pancks, if he failed in his present research, +was pretty sure to find other means of getting it. + +He, therefore, first requesting Mr Pancks to remember his voluntary +declaration that his proprietor had no part in the disclosure, and that +his own intentions were good (two declarations which that coaly little +gentleman with the greatest ardour repeated), openly told him that as to +the Dorrit lineage or former place of habitation, he had no information +to communicate, and that his knowledge of the family did not extend +beyond the fact that it appeared to be now reduced to five members; +namely, to two brothers, of whom one was single, and one a widower with +three children. The ages of the whole family he made known to Mr Pancks, +as nearly as he could guess at them; and finally he described to him +the position of the Father of the Marshalsea, and the course of time and +events through which he had become invested with that character. To +all this, Mr Pancks, snorting and blowing in a more and more portentous +manner as he became more interested, listened with great attention; +appearing to derive the most agreeable sensations from the painfullest +parts of the narrative, and particularly to be quite charmed by the +account of William Dorrit’s long imprisonment. + +‘In conclusion, Mr Pancks,’ said Arthur, ‘I have but to say this. I have +reasons beyond a personal regard for speaking as little as I can of the +Dorrit family, particularly at my mother’s house’ (Mr Pancks nodded), +‘and for knowing as much as I can. So devoted a man of business as you +are--eh?’ + +For Mr Pancks had suddenly made that blowing effort with unusual force. + +‘It’s nothing,’ said Pancks. + +‘So devoted a man of business as yourself has a perfect understanding of +a fair bargain. I wish to make a fair bargain with you, that you shall +enlighten me concerning the Dorrit family when you have it in your +power, as I have enlightened you. It may not give you a very flattering +idea of my business habits, that I failed to make my terms beforehand,’ +continued Clennam; ‘but I prefer to make them a point of honour. I have +seen so much business done on sharp principles that, to tell you the +truth, Mr Pancks, I am tired of them.’ + +Mr Pancks laughed. ‘It’s a bargain, sir,’ said he. ‘You shall find me +stick to it.’ + +After that, he stood a little while looking at Clennam, and biting his +ten nails all round; evidently while he fixed in his mind what he had +been told, and went over it carefully, before the means of supplying a +gap in his memory should be no longer at hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said +at last, ‘and now I’ll wish you good day, as it’s collecting day in the +Yard. By-the-bye, though. A lame foreigner with a stick.’ + +‘Ay, ay. You do take a reference sometimes, I see?’ said Clennam. + +‘When he can pay, sir,’ replied Pancks. ‘Take all you can get, and +keep back all you can’t be forced to give up. That’s business. The lame +foreigner with the stick wants a top room down the Yard. Is he good for +it?’ + +‘I am,’ said Clennam, ‘and I will answer for him.’ + +‘That’s enough. What I must have of Bleeding Heart Yard,’ said Pancks, +making a note of the case in his book, ‘is my bond. I want my bond, you +see. Pay up, or produce your property! That’s the watchword down the +Yard. The lame foreigner with the stick represented that you sent him; +but he could represent (as far as that goes) that the Great Mogul sent +him. He has been in the hospital, I believe?’ + +‘Yes. Through having met with an accident. He is only just now +discharged.’ + +‘It’s pauperising a man, sir, I have been shown, to let him into a +hospital?’ said Pancks. And again blew off that remarkable sound. + +‘I have been shown so too,’ said Clennam, coldly. + +Mr Pancks, being by that time quite ready for a start, got under steam +in a moment, and, without any other signal or ceremony, was snorting +down the step-ladder and working into Bleeding Heart Yard, before he +seemed to be well out of the counting-house. + +Throughout the remainder of the day, Bleeding Heart Yard was in +consternation, as the grim Pancks cruised in it; haranguing the +inhabitants on their backslidings in respect of payment, demanding his +bond, breathing notices to quit and executions, running down defaulters, +sending a swell of terror on before him, and leaving it in his wake. +Knots of people, impelled by a fatal attraction, lurked outside any +house in which he was known to be, listening for fragments of his +discourses to the inmates; and, when he was rumoured to be coming down +the stairs, often could not disperse so quickly but that he would be +prematurely in among them, demanding their own arrears, and rooting them +to the spot. Throughout the remainder of the day, Mr Pancks’s What were +they up to? and What did they mean by it? sounded all over the Yard. Mr +Pancks wouldn’t hear of excuses, wouldn’t hear of complaints, wouldn’t +hear of repairs, wouldn’t hear of anything but unconditional money down. +Perspiring and puffing and darting about in eccentric directions, and +becoming hotter and dingier every moment, he lashed the tide of the yard +into a most agitated and turbid state. It had not settled down into calm +water again full two hours after he had been seen fuming away on the +horizon at the top of the steps. + +There were several small assemblages of the Bleeding Hearts at the +popular points of meeting in the Yard that night, among whom it was +universally agreed that Mr Pancks was a hard man to have to do with; and +that it was much to be regretted, so it was, that a gentleman like Mr +Casby should put his rents in his hands, and never know him in his true +light. For (said the Bleeding Hearts), if a gentleman with that head of +hair and them eyes took his rents into his own hands, ma’am, there +would be none of this worriting and wearing, and things would be very +different. + +At which identical evening hour and minute, the Patriarch--who had +floated serenely through the Yard in the forenoon before the harrying +began, with the express design of getting up this trustfulness in his +shining bumps and silken locks--at which identical hour and minute, +that first-rate humbug of a thousand guns was heavily floundering in the +little Dock of his exhausted Tug at home, and was saying, as he turned +his thumbs: + +‘A very bad day’s work, Pancks, very bad day’s work. It seems to me, +sir, and I must insist on making this observation forcibly in justice to +myself, that you ought to have got much more money, much more money.’ + + + + +CHAPTER 24. Fortune-Telling + + +Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr Plornish, who, +having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a series +of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her father, as +regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of the axiom +that there are no such stone-blind men as those who will not see, +obtained an audience with her on the common staircase outside the door. + +‘There’s been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,’ Plornish +growled, ‘and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I met +with such. The way she snapped a person’s head off, dear me!’ + +The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away from Mr +F.’s Aunt. ‘For,’ said he, to excuse himself, ‘she is, I do assure you, +the winegariest party.’ + +At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the subject +sufficiently to observe: + +‘But she’s neither here nor there just at present. The other lady, she’s +Mr Casby’s daughter; and if Mr Casby an’t well off, none better, it an’t +through any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he does, he really does, +he does indeed!’ + +Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but +conscientiously emphatic. + +‘And what she come to our place for,’ he pursued, ‘was to leave word +that if Miss Dorrit would step up to that card--which it’s Mr Casby’s +house that is, and Pancks he has a office at the back, where he really +does, beyond belief--she would be glad for to engage her. She was a old +and a dear friend, she said particular, of Mr Clennam, and hoped for to +prove herself a useful friend to _his_ friend. Them was her words. Wishing +to know whether Miss Dorrit could come to-morrow morning, I said I would +see you, Miss, and inquire, and look round there to-night, to say yes, +or, if you was engaged to-morrow, when?’ + +‘I can go to-morrow, thank you,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘This is very kind +of you, but you are always kind.’ + +Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the room door +for her readmission, and followed her in with such an exceedingly bald +pretence of not having been out at all, that her father might +have observed it without being very suspicious. In his affable +unconsciousness, however, he took no heed. Plornish, after a little +conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a Collegian with +his present privilege as a humble outside friend, qualified again by his +low estate as a plasterer, took his leave; making the tour of the prison +before he left, and looking on at a game of skittles with the mixed +feelings of an old inhabitant who had his private reasons for believing +that it might be his destiny to come back again. + +Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high domestic +trust, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the Iron Bridge, +though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly in that part of her +journey than in any other. At five minutes before eight her hand was on +the Patriarchal knocker, which was quite as high as she could reach. + +She gave Mrs Finching’s card to the young woman who opened the door, and +the young woman told her that ‘Miss Flora’--Flora having, on her return +to the parental roof, reinvested herself with the title under which she +had lived there--was not yet out of her bedroom, but she was to please +to walk up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room. She walked up into +Miss Flora’s sitting-room, as in duty bound, and there found a +breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a supplementary tray +upon it laid for one. The young woman, disappearing for a few moments, +returned to say that she was to please to take a chair by the fire, +and to take off her bonnet and make herself at home. But Little Dorrit, +being bashful, and not used to make herself at home on such occasions, +felt at a loss how to do it; so she was still sitting near the door with +her bonnet on, when Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards. + +Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious why did +she sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find her by the +fire reading the paper, and hadn’t that heedless girl given her the +message then, and had she really been in her bonnet all this time, and +pray for goodness sake let Flora take it off! Flora taking it off in the +best-natured manner in the world, was so struck with the face disclosed, +that she said, ‘Why, what a good little thing you are, my dear!’ and +pressed her face between her hands like the gentlest of women. + +It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had hardly +time to think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the breakfast-table +full of business, and plunged over head and ears into loquacity. + +‘Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning of all +mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to meet you +when you came in and to say that any one that interested Arthur Clennam +half so much must interest me and that I gave you the heartiest welcome +and was so glad, instead of which they never called me and there I +still am snoring I dare say if the truth was known and if you don’t like +either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which many people don’t I dare say +besides Jews and theirs are scruples of conscience which we must all +respect though I must say I wish they had them equally strong when they +sell us false articles for real that certainly ain’t worth the money I +shall be quite vexed,’ said Flora. + +Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and tea was +all she usually-- + +‘Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,’ said Flora, +turning on the urn in the most reckless manner, and making herself wink +by splashing hot water into her eyes as she bent down to look into the +teapot. ‘You are coming here on the footing of a friend and companion +you know if you will let me take that liberty and I should be ashamed +of myself indeed if you could come here upon any other, besides which +Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms--you are tired my dear.’ + +‘No, ma’am.’ + +‘You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I dare +say live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,’ said Flora, +‘dear dear is there anything that would do you good?’ + +‘Indeed I am quite well, ma’am. I thank you again and again, but I am +quite well.’ + +‘Then take your tea at once I beg,’ said Flora, ‘and this wing of fowl +and bit of ham, don’t mind me or wait for me, because I always carry in +this tray myself to Mr F.’s Aunt who breakfasts in bed and a charming +old lady too and very clever, Portrait of Mr F. behind the door and very +like though too much forehead and as to a pillar with a marble pavement +and balustrades and a mountain, I never saw him near it nor not likely +in the wine trade, excellent man but not at all in that way.’ + +Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly following the +references to that work of art. + +‘Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of his +sight,’ said Flora, ‘though of course I am unable to say how long that +might have lasted if he hadn’t been cut short while I was a new broom, +worthy man but not poetical manly prose but not romance.’ + +Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had given it a +head that would have been, in an intellectual point of view, top-heavy +for Shakespeare. + +‘Romance, however,’ Flora went on, busily arranging Mr F.’s Aunt’s +toast, ‘as I openly said to Mr F. when he proposed to me and you will be +surprised to hear that he proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach +once in a boat once in a pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the +rest on his knees, Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur +Clennam, our parents tore us asunder we became marble and stern reality +usurped the throne, Mr F. said very much to his credit that he was +perfectly aware of it and even preferred that state of things +accordingly the word was spoken the fiat went forth and such is life you +see my dear and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good breakfast +while I go in with the tray.’ + +She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the meaning of her +scattered words. She soon came back again; and at last began to take her +own breakfast, talking all the while. + +‘You see, my dear,’ said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some +brown liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her tea, ‘I am +obliged to be careful to follow the directions of my medical man though +the flavour is anything but agreeable being a poor creature and it may +be have never recovered the shock received in youth from too much giving +way to crying in the next room when separated from Arthur, have you +known him long?’ + +As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked this +question--for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of her new +patroness having left her far behind--she answered that she had known Mr +Clennam ever since his return. + +‘To be sure you couldn’t have known him before unless you had been in +China or had corresponded neither of which is likely,’ returned Flora, +‘for travelling-people usually get more or less mahogany and you are not +at all so and as to corresponding what about? that’s very true unless +tea, so it was at his mother’s was it really that you knew him first, +highly sensible and firm but dreadfully severe--ought to be the mother +of the man in the iron mask.’ + +‘Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur’s mother it’s +naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better opinion of her than +I had before, though what she thinks of me when I run on as I am certain +to do and she sits glowering at me like Fate in a go-cart--shocking +comparison really--invalid and not her fault--I never know or can +imagine.’ + +‘Shall I find my work anywhere, ma’am?’ asked Little Dorrit, looking +timidly about; ‘can I get it?’ + +‘You industrious little fairy,’ returned Flora, taking, in another cup +of tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical man, ‘there’s +not the slightest hurry and it’s better that we should begin by being +confidential about our mutual friend--too cold a word for me at least +I don’t mean that, very proper expression mutual friend--than become +through mere formalities not you but me like the Spartan boy with the +fox biting him, which I hope you’ll excuse my bringing up for of all +the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into every sort of company that +boy’s the tiresomest.’ + +Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. ‘Hadn’t I +better work the while?’ she asked. ‘I can work and attend too. I would +rather, if I may.’ + +Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work, +that Flora answered, ‘Well my dear whatever you like best,’ and produced +a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her +side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and +began to hem. + +‘What nimble fingers you have,’ said Flora, ‘but are you sure you are +well?’ + +‘Oh yes, indeed!’ + +Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough +good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head, +sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use +of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet +face that bent over the work. + +‘You must know my dear,’ said Flora, ‘but that I have no doubt you know +already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way +but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what’s his names +upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had +been engaged to Arthur Clennam--Mr Clennam in public where reserve is +necessary Arthur here--we were all in all to one another it was the +morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of +that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in +which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the +late Mr F.’ + +Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely. + +‘To paint,’ said she, ‘the emotions of that morning when all was marble +within and Mr F.’s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to +reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken +down two streets from the house and Mr F.’s Aunt brought home like the +fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt, +suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the +dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon +was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental +tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they +separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.’ + +The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest +complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and +blood. + +‘I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his +appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but +palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood +of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down, +ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers +out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another +sphere.’ + +His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her +eyes. + +‘I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent +husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint +at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint +bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa’s roof +and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa +came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me +below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except +that he was still unmarried still unchanged!’ + +The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might have +stopped other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near her. +They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them watching +the stitches. + +‘Ask me not,’ said Flora, ‘if I love him still or if he still loves me +or what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by watchful eyes and +it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to +be reunited not a word not a breath not a look to betray us all must +be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that even if I should seem +comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should seem comparatively cold to +me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we understand them hush!’ + +All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if she really +believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked herself into +full mermaid condition, she did actually believe whatever she said in +it. + +‘Hush!’ repeated Flora, ‘I have now told you all, confidence is +established between us hush, for Arthur’s sake I will always be a friend +to you my dear girl and in Arthur’s name you may always rely upon me.’ + +The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure rose and +kissed her hand. ‘You are very cold,’ said Flora, changing to her own +natural kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the change. ‘Don’t +work to-day. I am sure you are not well I am sure you are not strong.’ + +‘It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and by Mr +Clennam’s kindness in confiding me to one he has known and loved so +long.’ + +‘Well really my dear,’ said Flora, who had a decided tendency to be +always honest when she gave herself time to think about it, ‘it’s as +well to leave that alone now, for I couldn’t undertake to say after all, +but it doesn’t signify lie down a little!’ + +‘I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I shall +be quite well directly,’ returned Little Dorrit, with a faint smile. +‘You have overpowered me with gratitude, that’s all. If I keep near the +window for a moment I shall be quite myself.’ + +Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and considerately +retired to her former place. It was a windy day, and the air stirring +on Little Dorrit’s face soon brightened it. In a very few minutes she +returned to her basket of work, and her nimble fingers were as nimble as +ever. + +Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had told her +where she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little Dorrit said +that she understood why he had been so delicate, but that she felt sure +he would approve of her confiding her secret to Flora, and that +she would therefore do so now with Flora’s permission. Receiving an +encouraging answer, she condensed the narrative of her life into a few +scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy upon her father; and +Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that quite understood it, +and in which there was no incoherence. + +When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge through +hers, and led her down-stairs, and presented her to the Patriarch and Mr +Pancks, who were already in the dining-room waiting to begin. (Mr F.’s +Aunt was, for the time, laid up in ordinary in her chamber.) By those +gentlemen she was received according to their characters; the Patriarch +appearing to do her some inestimable service in saying that he was glad +to see her, glad to see her; and Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite +sound as a salute. + +In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under any +circumstances, and particularly under Flora’s insisting on her +drinking a glass of wine and eating of the best that was there; but her +constraint was greatly increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of that +gentleman at first suggested to her mind that he might be a taker of +likenesses, so intently did he look at her, and so frequently did he +glance at the little note-book by his side. Observing that he made no +sketch, however, and that he talked about business only, she began to +have suspicions that he represented some creditor of her father’s, the +balance due to whom was noted in that pocket volume. Regarded from this +point of view Mr Pancks’s puffings expressed injury and impatience, and +each of his louder snorts became a demand for payment. + +But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous conduct +on the part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table half an hour, +and was at work alone. Flora had ‘gone to lie down’ in the next room, +concurrently with which retirement a smell of something to drink +had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was fast asleep, with his +philanthropic mouth open under a yellow pocket-handkerchief in the +dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr Pancks softly appeared before her, +urbanely nodding. + +‘Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?’ inquired Pancks in a low voice. + +‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘Busy, I see,’ observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches. +‘What are those now, Miss Dorrit?’ + +‘Handkerchiefs.’ + +‘Are they, though!’ said Pancks. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it.’ Not in +the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. ‘Perhaps you +wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.’ + +Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad. + +‘I belong body and soul to my proprietor,’ said Pancks; ‘you saw my +proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way, +sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.’ + +Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. ‘I wish +you’d show me the palm of your hand,’ said Pancks. ‘I should like to +have a look at it. Don’t let me be troublesome.’ + +He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she +laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with +her thimble on it. + +‘Years of toil, eh?’ said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt +forefinger. ‘But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!’ looking +into the lines. ‘What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this +with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it’s a father! And what’s this +with a clarionet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing-shoes? It’s +a sister! And what’s this straggling about in an idle sort of a way? +It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for ‘em all? Why, this is you, +Miss Dorrit!’ + +Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she +thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and +gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on +her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting +the impression was gone. + +‘Now, the deuce is in it,’ muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her +hand with his clumsy finger, ‘if this isn’t me in the corner here! What +do I want here? What’s behind me?’ + +He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and +affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him. + +‘Is it any harm?’ asked Little Dorrit, smiling. + +‘Deuce a bit!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’ + +‘I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.’ + +‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss +Dorrit.’ + +Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his +prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; +and repeated slowly, ‘Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live +to see.’ + +She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only +by his knowing so much about her. + +‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that, +ever!’ + +More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to +him for an explanation of his last words. + +‘Not that,’ said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation +of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally +grotesque. ‘Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter +where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no +notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’ + +‘I hardly know what to say,’ returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. +‘Why?’ + +‘Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so +much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind +me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it +agreed, Miss Dorrit?’ + +‘Agreed that I--am--to--’ + +‘To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not +to mind me when I come and go. It’s very easy. I am no loss, I am not +handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber. +You need do no more than think, “Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his +fortune-telling--he’ll tell the rest of my fortune one day--I shall live +to know it.” Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’ + +‘Ye-es,’ faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, ‘I suppose +so, while you do no harm.’ + +‘Good!’ Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped +forward. ‘Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and +a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.’ With that he rubbed his hands as if the +interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door, +and urbanely nodded himself out again. + +If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct +on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved +in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing +circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded +him in Mr Casby’s house of significantly glancing at her and snorting +at her--which was not much, after what he had done already--he began to +pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she +went to Mr Casby’s, he was always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam’s, +he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week +had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one +night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one +of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at +his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among +the visitors at her father’s Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with +a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had +greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that held +its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the members +of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company to five +gallons of ale--report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The effect on +Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of in +his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to +that produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind +him. He could only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn’t +be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never +said a word more, or made a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr Pancks +crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some +unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that +gentleman’s arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit, +save once or twice when he happened to come close to her and there +was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing, +with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, ‘Pancks the +gipsy--fortune-telling.’ + +Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but +keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier +loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet, +over the patient heart. Every day found her something more retiring +than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison unnoticed, and +elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for herself, her chief +desires. + +To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth +and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without +desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she was +unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with her +father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she would +flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her room, +and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those spikes +upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave itself +into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat +there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when +she saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still, +always over it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her +solitude, seeing everything with that ineffaceable brand. + +A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little +Dorrit’s room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little +but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had +ever been able to buy, had gone to her father’s room. Howbeit, for this +poor place she showed an increasing love; and to sit in it alone became +her favourite rest. + +Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when +she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy’s well-known step coming +up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being +summoned away. As Maggy’s step came higher up and nearer, she trembled +and faltered; and it was as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at +length appeared. + +‘Please, Little Mother,’ said Maggy, panting for breath, ‘you must come +down and see him. He’s here.’ + +‘Who, Maggy?’ + +‘Who, o’ course Mr Clennam. He’s in your father’s room, and he says to +me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it’s only me.’ + +‘I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down. +See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that +you left me so, or I would have come.’ + +‘Well, it an’t very polite though, Little Mother,’ said the staring +Maggy, ‘to turn your face away, neither!’ + +Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in +inventing them. ‘Putting both your hands afore your face too!’ she went +on. ‘If you can’t bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to +tell her so at once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her +feelings and breaking her heart at ten year old, poor thing!’ + +‘It’s to ease my head, Maggy.’ + +‘Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too. +Don’t go and have all the crying to yourself,’ expostulated Maggy, ‘that +an’t not being greedy.’ And immediately began to blubber. + +It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with +the excuse; but the promise of being told a story--of old her great +delight--on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the +errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour longer, +combined with a misgiving on Maggy’s part that she had left her good +temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away she went, +muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind, and, at the +appointed time, came back. + +‘He was very sorry, I can tell you,’ she announced, ‘and wanted to send +a doctor. And he’s coming again to-morrow he is and I don’t think he’ll +have a good sleep to-night along o’ hearing about your head, Little +Mother. Oh my! Ain’t you been a-crying!’ + +‘I think I have, a little, Maggy.’ + +‘A little! Oh!’ + +‘But it’s all over now--all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much +better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not +go down.’ + +Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her +hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which +her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her +brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair by the window. Over +against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic exertions that were not +at all required, dragged the box which was her seat on story-telling +occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and said, with a +voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes: + +‘Now, Little Mother, let’s have a good ‘un!’ + +‘What shall it be about, Maggy?’ + +‘Oh, let’s have a princess,’ said Maggy, ‘and let her be a reg’lar one. +Beyond all belief, you know!’ + +Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon +her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began: + +‘Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he +could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds +and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had--’ + +‘Hospitals,’ interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. ‘Let him have +hospitals, because they’re so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of +Chicking.’ + +‘Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.’ + +‘Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?’ said Maggy. + +‘Plenty of everything.’ + +‘Lor!’ chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. ‘Wasn’t it prime!’ + +‘This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful +Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her +lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown +up, she was the wonder of the world. Now, near the Palace where this +Princess lived, there was a cottage in which there was a poor little +tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.’ + +‘An old woman,’ said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her lips. + +‘No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.’ + +‘I wonder she warn’t afraid,’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’ + +‘The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever she went +by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman spinning at +her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked +at her. So, one day she stopped the coachman a little way from the +cottage, and got out and walked on and peeped in at the door, and there, +as usual, was the tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at +the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.’ + +‘Like trying to stare one another out,’ said Maggy. ‘Please go on, +Little Mother.’ + +‘The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the power of +knowing secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you keep it +there? This showed her directly that the Princess knew why she lived +all alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she kneeled down at +the Princess’s feet, and asked her never to betray her. So the Princess +said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So the tiny woman closed +the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the door, and trembling +from head to foot for fear that any one should suspect her, opened a +very secret place and showed the Princess a shadow.’ + +‘Lor!’ said Maggy. + +‘It was the shadow of Some one who had gone by long before: of Some one +who had gone on far away quite out of reach, never, never to come back. +It was bright to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the +Princess, she was proud of it with all her heart, as a great, great +treasure. When the Princess had considered it a little while, she said +to the tiny woman, And you keep watch over this every day? And she cast +down her eyes, and whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me +why. To which the other replied, that no one so good and kind had ever +passed that way, and that was why in the beginning. She said, too, that +nobody missed it, that nobody was the worse for it, that Some one had +gone on, to those who were expecting him--’ + +‘Some one was a man then?’ interposed Maggy. + +Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed: + +‘--Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this +remembrance was stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made +answer, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be discovered there. The +tiny woman told her No; when that time came, it would sink quietly into +her own grave, and would never be found.’ + +‘Well, to be sure!’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’ + +‘The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may suppose, +Maggy.’ + +[‘And well she might be,’ said Maggy.) + +‘So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of it. Every +day she drove in her beautiful carriage by the cottage-door, and there +she saw the tiny woman always alone by herself spinning at her wheel, +and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. At +last one day the wheel was still, and the tiny woman was not to be seen. +When the Princess made inquiries why the wheel had stopped, and where +the tiny woman was, she was informed that the wheel had stopped because +there was nobody to turn it, the tiny woman being dead.’ + +[‘They ought to have took her to the Hospital,’ said Maggy, and then +she’d have got over it.’) + +‘The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the tiny +woman, dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place where +she had stopped it before, and went to the cottage and peeped in at the +door. There was nobody to look at her now, and nobody for her to look +at, so she went in at once to search for the treasured shadow. But there +was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and then she knew that the tiny +woman had told her the truth, and that it would never give anybody any +trouble, and that it had sunk quietly into her own grave, and that she +and it were at rest together. + +‘That’s all, Maggy.’ + +The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit’s face when she came +thus to the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to shade it. + +‘Had she got to be old?’ Maggy asked. + +‘The tiny woman?’ + +‘Ah!’ + +‘I don’t know,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But it would have been just the +same if she had been ever so old.’ + +‘Would it raly!’ said Maggy. ‘Well, I suppose it would though.’ And sat +staring and ruminating. + +She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little Dorrit, +to entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window. As she +glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up with the +corner of his eye as he went by. + +‘Who’s he, Little Mother?’ said Maggy. She had joined her at the window +and was leaning on her shoulder. ‘I see him come in and out often.’ + +‘I have heard him called a fortune-teller,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But I +doubt if he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes.’ + +‘Couldn’t have told the Princess hers?’ said Maggy. + +Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the prison, +shook her head. + +‘Nor the tiny woman hers?’ said Maggy. + +‘No,’ said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her. ‘But let +us come away from the window.’ + + + + +CHAPTER 25. Conspirators and Others + + +The private residence of Mr Pancks was in Pentonville, where he lodged +on the second-floor of a professional gentleman in an extremely small +way, who had an inner-door within the street door, poised on a spring +and starting open with a click like a trap; and who wrote up in the +fan-light, RUGG, GENERAL AGENT, ACCOUNTANT, DEBTS RECOVERED. + +This scroll, majestic in its severe simplicity, illuminated a little +slip of front garden abutting on the thirsty high-road, where a few +of the dustiest of leaves hung their dismal heads and led a life of +choking. A professor of writing occupied the first-floor, and enlivened +the garden railings with glass-cases containing choice examples of what +his pupils had been before six lessons and while the whole of his young +family shook the table, and what they had become after six lessons +when the young family was under restraint. The tenancy of Mr Pancks was +limited to one airy bedroom; he covenanting and agreeing with Mr Rugg +his landlord, that in consideration of a certain scale of payments +accurately defined, and on certain verbal notice duly given, he should +be at liberty to elect to share the Sunday breakfast, dinner, tea, or +supper, or each or any or all of those repasts or meals of Mr and Miss +Rugg (his daughter) in the back-parlour. + +Miss Rugg was a lady of a little property which she had acquired, +together with much distinction in the neighbourhood, by having her +heart severely lacerated and her feelings mangled by a middle-aged baker +resident in the vicinity, against whom she had, by the agency of Mr +Rugg, found it necessary to proceed at law to recover damages for a +breach of promise of marriage. The baker having been, by the counsel for +Miss Rugg, witheringly denounced on that occasion up to the full amount +of twenty guineas, at the rate of about eighteen-pence an epithet, and +having been cast in corresponding damages, still suffered occasional +persecution from the youth of Pentonville. But Miss Rugg, environed by +the majesty of the law, and having her damages invested in the public +securities, was regarded with consideration. + +In the society of Mr Rugg, who had a round white visage, as if all his +blushes had been drawn out of him long ago, and who had a ragged yellow +head like a worn-out hearth broom; and in the society of Miss Rugg, who +had little nankeen spots, like shirt buttons, all over her face, and +whose own yellow tresses were rather scrubby than luxuriant; Mr Pancks +had usually dined on Sundays for some few years, and had twice a week, +or so, enjoyed an evening collation of bread, Dutch cheese, and porter. +Mr Pancks was one of the very few marriageable men for whom Miss Rugg +had no terrors, the argument with which he reassured himself being +twofold; that is to say, firstly, ‘that it wouldn’t do twice,’ and +secondly, ‘that he wasn’t worth it.’ Fortified within this double +armour, Mr Pancks snorted at Miss Rugg on easy terms. + +Up to this time, Mr Pancks had transacted little or no business at his +quarters in Pentonville, except in the sleeping line; but now that he +had become a fortune-teller, he was often closeted after midnight +with Mr Rugg in his little front-parlour office, and even after those +untimely hours, burnt tallow in his bed-room. Though his duties as his +proprietor’s grubber were in no wise lessened; and though that service +bore no greater resemblance to a bed of roses than was to be discovered +in its many thorns; some new branch of industry made a constant demand +upon him. When he cast off the Patriarch at night, it was only to take +an anonymous craft in tow, and labour away afresh in other waters. + +The advance from a personal acquaintance with the elder Mr Chivery to +an introduction to his amiable wife and disconsolate son, may have been +easy; but easy or not, Mr Pancks soon made it. He nestled in the bosom +of the tobacco business within a week or two after his first appearance +in the College, and particularly addressed himself to the cultivation of +a good understanding with Young John. In this endeavour he so prospered +as to lure that pining shepherd forth from the groves, and tempt him +to undertake mysterious missions; on which he began to disappear at +uncertain intervals for as long a space as two or three days together. +The prudent Mrs Chivery, who wondered greatly at this change, would have +protested against it as detrimental to the Highland typification on the +doorpost but for two forcible reasons; one, that her John was roused to +take strong interest in the business which these starts were supposed +to advance--and this she held to be good for his drooping spirits; +the other, that Mr Pancks confidentially agreed to pay her, for the +occupation of her son’s time, at the handsome rate of seven and sixpence +per day. The proposal originated with himself, and was couched in the +pithy terms, ‘If your John is weak enough, ma’am, not to take it, +that is no reason why you should be, don’t you see? So, quite between +ourselves, ma’am, business being business, here it is!’ + +What Mr Chivery thought of these things, or how much or how little he +knew about them, was never gathered from himself. It has been already +remarked that he was a man of few words; and it may be here observed +that he had imbibed a professional habit of locking everything up. He +locked himself up as carefully as he locked up the Marshalsea debtors. +Even his custom of bolting his meals may have been a part of an uniform +whole; but there is no question, that, as to all other purposes, he kept +his mouth as he kept the Marshalsea door. He never opened it without +occasion. When it was necessary to let anything out, he opened it a +little way, held it open just as long as sufficed for the purpose, and +locked it again. Even as he would be sparing of his trouble at the +Marshalsea door, and would keep a visitor who wanted to go out, waiting +for a few moments if he saw another visitor coming down the yard, so +that one turn of the key should suffice for both, similarly he would +often reserve a remark if he perceived another on its way to his lips, +and would deliver himself of the two together. As to any key to his +inner knowledge being to be found in his face, the Marshalsea key was as +legible as an index to the individual characters and histories upon +which it was turned. + +That Mr Pancks should be moved to invite any one to dinner at +Pentonville, was an unprecedented fact in his calendar. But he invited +Young John to dinner, and even brought him within range of the dangerous +(because expensive) fascinations of Miss Rugg. The banquet was appointed +for a Sunday, and Miss Rugg with her own hands stuffed a leg of mutton +with oysters on the occasion, and sent it to the baker’s--not _the_ +baker’s but an opposition establishment. Provision of oranges, apples, +and nuts was also made. And rum was brought home by Mr Pancks on +Saturday night, to gladden the visitor’s heart. + +The store of creature comforts was not the chief part of the visitor’s +reception. Its special feature was a foregone family confidence and +sympathy. When Young John appeared at half-past one without the ivory +hand and waistcoat of golden sprigs, the sun shorn of his beams by +disastrous clouds, Mr Pancks presented him to the yellow-haired Ruggs as +the young man he had so often mentioned who loved Miss Dorrit. + +‘I am glad,’ said Mr Rugg, challenging him specially in that character, +‘to have the distinguished gratification of making your acquaintance, +sir. Your feelings do you honour. You are young; may you never outlive +your feelings! If I was to outlive my own feelings, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, +who was a man of many words, and was considered to possess a remarkably +good address; ‘if I was to outlive my own feelings, I’d leave fifty +pound in my will to the man who would put me out of existence.’ + +Miss Rugg heaved a sigh. + +‘My daughter, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Anastatia, you are no stranger to the +state of this young man’s affections. My daughter has had her trials, +sir’--Mr Rugg might have used the word more pointedly in the singular +number--‘and she can feel for you.’ + +Young John, almost overwhelmed by the touching nature of this greeting, +professed himself to that effect. + +‘What I envy you, sir, is,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘allow me to take your hat--we +are rather short of pegs--I’ll put it in the corner, nobody will tread +on it there--What I envy you, sir, is the luxury of your own feelings. I +belong to a profession in which that luxury is sometimes denied us.’ + +Young John replied, with acknowledgments, that he only hoped he did what +was right, and what showed how entirely he was devoted to Miss Dorrit. +He wished to be unselfish; and he hoped he was. He wished to do anything +as laid in his power to serve Miss Dorrit, altogether putting himself +out of sight; and he hoped he did. It was but little that he could do, +but he hoped he did it. + +‘Sir,’ said Mr Rugg, taking him by the hand, ‘you are a young man that +it does one good to come across. You are a young man that I should +like to put in the witness-box, to humanise the minds of the legal +profession. I hope you have brought your appetite with you, and intend +to play a good knife and fork?’ + +‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Young John, ‘I don’t eat much at present.’ + +Mr Rugg drew him a little apart. ‘My daughter’s case, sir,’ said he, ‘at +the time when, in vindication of her outraged feelings and her sex, she +became the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins. I suppose I could have put it +in evidence, Mr Chivery, if I had thought it worth my while, that the +amount of solid sustenance my daughter consumed at that period did not +exceed ten ounces per week.’ + +‘I think I go a little beyond that, sir,’ returned the other, +hesitating, as if he confessed it with some shame. + +‘But in your case there’s no fiend in human form,’ said Mr Rugg, with +argumentative smile and action of hand. ‘Observe, Mr Chivery! +No fiend in human form!’ + +‘No, sir, certainly,’ Young John added with simplicity, ‘I should be +very sorry if there was.’ + +‘The sentiment,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘is what I should have expected from your +known principles. It would affect my daughter greatly, sir, if she heard +it. As I perceive the mutton, I am glad she didn’t hear it. Mr Pancks, +on this occasion, pray face me. My dear, face Mr Chivery. For what we +are going to receive, may we (and Miss Dorrit) be truly thankful!’ + +But for a grave waggishness in Mr Rugg’s manner of delivering this +introduction to the feast, it might have appeared that Miss Dorrit was +expected to be one of the company. Pancks recognised the sally in +his usual way, and took in his provender in his usual way. Miss Rugg, +perhaps making up some of her arrears, likewise took very kindly to +the mutton, and it rapidly diminished to the bone. A bread-and-butter +pudding entirely disappeared, and a considerable amount of cheese and +radishes vanished by the same means. Then came the dessert. + +Then also, and before the broaching of the rum and water, came Mr +Pancks’s note-book. The ensuing business proceedings were brief but +curious, and rather in the nature of a conspiracy. Mr Pancks looked over +his note-book, which was now getting full, studiously; and picked out +little extracts, which he wrote on separate slips of paper on the table; +Mr Rugg, in the meanwhile, looking at him with close attention, and +Young John losing his uncollected eye in mists of meditation. When Mr +Pancks, who supported the character of chief conspirator, had completed +his extracts, he looked them over, corrected them, put up his note-book, +and held them like a hand at cards. + +‘Now, there’s a churchyard in Bedfordshire,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes +it?’ + +‘I’ll take it, sir,’ returned Mr Rugg, ‘if no one bids.’ + +Mr Pancks dealt him his card, and looked at his hand again. + +‘Now, there’s an Enquiry in York,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’ + +‘I’m not good for York,’ said Mr Rugg. + +‘Then perhaps,’ pursued Pancks, ‘you’ll be so obliging, John Chivery?’ + +Young John assenting, Pancks dealt him his card, and consulted his hand +again. + +‘There’s a Church in London; I may as well take that. And a Family +Bible; I may as well take that, too. That’s two to me. Two to me,’ +repeated Pancks, breathing hard over his cards. ‘Here’s a Clerk at +Durham for you, John, and an old seafaring gentleman at Dunstable for +you, Mr Rugg. Two to me, was it? Yes, two to me. Here’s a Stone; three +to me. And a Still-born Baby; four to me. And all, for the present, +told.’ + +When he had thus disposed of his cards, all being done very quietly and +in a suppressed tone, Mr Pancks puffed his way into his own +breast-pocket and tugged out a canvas bag; from which, with a sparing +hand, he told forth money for travelling expenses in two little +portions. ‘Cash goes out fast,’ he said anxiously, as he pushed a +portion to each of his male companions, ‘very fast.’ + +‘I can only assure you, Mr Pancks,’ said Young John, ‘that I deeply +regret my circumstances being such that I can’t afford to pay my own +charges, or that it’s not advisable to allow me the time necessary for +my doing the distances on foot; because nothing would give me greater +satisfaction than to walk myself off my legs without fee or reward.’ + +This young man’s disinterestedness appeared so very ludicrous in +the eyes of Miss Rugg, that she was obliged to effect a precipitate +retirement from the company, and to sit upon the stairs until she had +had her laugh out. Meanwhile Mr Pancks, looking, not without some pity, +at Young John, slowly and thoughtfully twisted up his canvas bag as if +he were wringing its neck. The lady, returning as he restored it to his +pocket, mixed rum and water for the party, not forgetting her fair self, +and handed to every one his glass. When all were supplied, Mr Rugg rose, +and silently holding out his glass at arm’s length above the centre of +the table, by that gesture invited the other three to add theirs, and to +unite in a general conspiratorial clink. The ceremony was effective up +to a certain point, and would have been wholly so throughout, if Miss +Rugg, as she raised her glass to her lips in completion of it, had not +happened to look at Young John; when she was again so overcome by the +contemptible comicality of his disinterestedness as to splutter some +ambrosial drops of rum and water around, and withdraw in confusion. + +Such was the dinner without precedent, given by Pancks at Pentonville; +and such was the busy and strange life Pancks led. The only waking +moments at which he appeared to relax from his cares, and to recreate +himself by going anywhere or saying anything without a pervading object, +were when he showed a dawning interest in the lame foreigner with the +stick, down Bleeding Heart Yard. + +The foreigner, by name John Baptist Cavalletto--they called him Mr +Baptist in the Yard--was such a chirping, easy, hopeful little fellow, +that his attraction for Pancks was probably in the force of contrast. +Solitary, weak, and scantily acquainted with the most necessary words +of the only language in which he could communicate with the people about +him, he went with the stream of his fortunes, in a brisk way that was +new in those parts. With little to eat, and less to drink, and nothing +to wear but what he wore upon him, or had brought tied up in one of the +smallest bundles that ever were seen, he put as bright a face upon it as +if he were in the most flourishing circumstances when he first hobbled +up and down the Yard, humbly propitiating the general good-will with his +white teeth. + +It was uphill work for a foreigner, lame or sound, to make his way with +the Bleeding Hearts. In the first place, they were vaguely persuaded +that every foreigner had a knife about him; in the second, they held it +to be a sound constitutional national axiom that he ought to go home to +his own country. They never thought of inquiring how many of their own +countrymen would be returned upon their hands from divers parts of the +world, if the principle were generally recognised; they considered it +particularly and peculiarly British. In the third place, they had a +notion that it was a sort of Divine visitation upon a foreigner that he +was not an Englishman, and that all kinds of calamities happened to +his country because it did things that England did not, and did not do +things that England did. In this belief, to be sure, they had long been +carefully trained by the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, who were always +proclaiming to them, officially, that no country which failed to submit +itself to those two large families could possibly hope to be under the +protection of Providence; and who, when they believed it, disparaged +them in private as the most prejudiced people under the sun. + +This, therefore, might be called a political position of the Bleeding +Hearts; but they entertained other objections to having foreigners +in the Yard. They believed that foreigners were always badly off; and +though they were as ill off themselves as they could desire to be, +that did not diminish the force of the objection. They believed that +foreigners were dragooned and bayoneted; and though they certainly got +their own skulls promptly fractured if they showed any ill-humour, still +it was with a blunt instrument, and that didn’t count. They believed +that foreigners were always immoral; and though they had an occasional +assize at home, and now and then a divorce case or so, that had nothing +to do with it. They believed that foreigners had no independent spirit, +as never being escorted to the poll in droves by Lord Decimus Tite +Barnacle, with colours flying and the tune of Rule Britannia playing. +Not to be tedious, they had many other beliefs of a similar kind. + +Against these obstacles, the lame foreigner with the stick had to make +head as well as he could; not absolutely single-handed, because Mr +Arthur Clennam had recommended him to the Plornishes (he lived at the +top of the same house), but still at heavy odds. However, the Bleeding +Hearts were kind hearts; and when they saw the little fellow cheerily +limping about with a good-humoured face, doing no harm, drawing no +knives, committing no outrageous immoralities, living chiefly on +farinaceous and milk diet, and playing with Mrs Plornish’s children of +an evening, they began to think that although he could never hope to be +an Englishman, still it would be hard to visit that affliction on his +head. They began to accommodate themselves to his level, calling him ‘Mr +Baptist,’ but treating him like a baby, and laughing immoderately at his +lively gestures and his childish English--more, because he didn’t mind +it, and laughed too. They spoke to him in very loud voices as if he +were stone deaf. They constructed sentences, by way of teaching him the +language in its purity, such as were addressed by the savages to Captain +Cook, or by Friday to Robinson Crusoe. Mrs Plornish was particularly +ingenious in this art; and attained so much celebrity for saying ‘Me ope +you leg well soon,’ that it was considered in the Yard but a very short +remove indeed from speaking Italian. Even Mrs Plornish herself began to +think that she had a natural call towards that language. As he became +more popular, household objects were brought into requisition for his +instruction in a copious vocabulary; and whenever he appeared in the +Yard ladies would fly out at their doors crying ‘Mr Baptist--tea-pot!’ +‘Mr Baptist--dust-pan!’ ‘Mr Baptist--flour-dredger!’ ‘Mr +Baptist--coffee-biggin!’ At the same time exhibiting those articles, +and penetrating him with a sense of the appalling difficulties of the +Anglo-Saxon tongue. + +It was in this stage of his progress, and in about the third week of his +occupation, that Mr Pancks’s fancy became attracted by the little man. +Mounting to his attic, attended by Mrs Plornish as interpreter, he found +Mr Baptist with no furniture but his bed on the ground, a table, and a +chair, carving with the aid of a few simple tools, in the blithest way +possible. + +‘Now, old chap,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘pay up!’ + +He had his money ready, folded in a scrap of paper, and laughingly +handed it in; then with a free action, threw out as many fingers of his +right hand as there were shillings, and made a cut crosswise in the air +for an odd sixpence. + +‘Oh!’ said Mr Pancks, watching him, wonderingly. ‘That’s it, is it? +You’re a quick customer. It’s all right. I didn’t expect to receive it, +though.’ + +Mrs Plornish here interposed with great condescension, and explained to +Mr Baptist. ‘E please. E glad get money.’ + +The little man smiled and nodded. His bright face seemed uncommonly +attractive to Mr Pancks. ‘How’s he getting on in his limb?’ he asked Mrs +Plornish. + +‘Oh, he’s a deal better, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘We expect next week +he’ll be able to leave off his stick entirely.’ (The opportunity +being too favourable to be lost, Mrs Plornish displayed her great +accomplishment by explaining with pardonable pride to Mr Baptist, ‘E ope +you leg well soon.’) + +‘He’s a merry fellow, too,’ said Mr Pancks, admiring him as if he were a +mechanical toy. ‘How does he live?’ + +‘Why, sir,’ rejoined Mrs Plornish, ‘he turns out to have quite a power +of carving them flowers that you see him at now.’ (Mr Baptist, watching +their faces as they spoke, held up his work. Mrs Plornish interpreted in +her Italian manner, on behalf of Mr Pancks, ‘E please. Double good!’) + +‘Can he live by that?’ asked Mr Pancks. + +‘He can live on very little, sir, and it is expected as he will be able, +in time, to make a very good living. Mr Clennam got it him to do, and +gives him odd jobs besides in at the Works next door--makes ‘em for him, +in short, when he knows he wants ‘em.’ + +‘And what does he do with himself, now, when he ain’t hard at it?’ said +Mr Pancks. + +‘Why, not much as yet, sir, on accounts I suppose of not being able to +walk much; but he goes about the Yard, and he chats without particular +understanding or being understood, and he plays with the children, +and he sits in the sun--he’ll sit down anywhere, as if it was an +arm-chair--and he’ll sing, and he’ll laugh!’ + +‘Laugh!’ echoed Mr Pancks. ‘He looks to me as if every tooth in his head +was always laughing.’ + +‘But whenever he gets to the top of the steps at t’other end of the +Yard,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘he’ll peep out in the curiousest way! So that +some of us thinks he’s peeping out towards where his own country is, and +some of us thinks he’s looking for somebody he don’t want to see, and +some of us don’t know what to think.’ + +Mr Baptist seemed to have a general understanding of what she said; or +perhaps his quickness caught and applied her slight action of peeping. +In any case he closed his eyes and tossed his head with the air of a man +who had sufficient reasons for what he did, and said in his own tongue, +it didn’t matter. Altro! + +‘What’s Altro?’ said Pancks. + +‘Hem! It’s a sort of a general kind of expression, sir,’ said Mrs +Plornish. + +‘Is it?’ said Pancks. ‘Why, then Altro to you, old chap. Good afternoon. +Altro!’ + +Mr Baptist in his vivacious way repeating the word several times, Mr +Pancks in his duller way gave it him back once. From that time it became +a frequent custom with Pancks the gipsy, as he went home jaded at night, +to pass round by Bleeding Heart Yard, go quietly up the stairs, look in +at Mr Baptist’s door, and, finding him in his room, to say, ‘Hallo, old +chap! Altro!’ To which Mr Baptist would reply with innumerable bright +nods and smiles, ‘Altro, signore, altro, altro, altro!’ After this +highly condensed conversation, Mr Pancks would go his way with an +appearance of being lightened and refreshed. + + + + +CHAPTER 26. Nobody’s State of Mind + + +If Arthur Clennam had not arrived at that wise decision firmly to +restrain himself from loving Pet, he would have lived on in a state of +much perplexity, involving difficult struggles with his own heart. Not +the least of these would have been a contention, always waging within +it, between a tendency to dislike Mr Henry Gowan, if not to regard +him with positive repugnance, and a whisper that the inclination was +unworthy. A generous nature is not prone to strong aversions, and is +slow to admit them even dispassionately; but when it finds ill-will +gaining upon it, and can discern between-whiles that its origin is not +dispassionate, such a nature becomes distressed. + +Therefore Mr Henry Gowan would have clouded Clennam’s mind, and would +have been far oftener present to it than more agreeable persons and +subjects but for the great prudence of his decision aforesaid. As it +was, Mr Gowan seemed transferred to Daniel Doyce’s mind; at all events, +it so happened that it usually fell to Mr Doyce’s turn, rather than +to Clennam’s, to speak of him in the friendly conversations they held +together. These were of frequent occurrence now; as the two partners +shared a portion of a roomy house in one of the grave old-fashioned City +streets, lying not far from the Bank of England, by London Wall. + +Mr Doyce had been to Twickenham to pass the day. Clennam had excused +himself. Mr Doyce was just come home. He put in his head at the door of +Clennam’s sitting-room to say Good night. + +‘Come in, come in!’ said Clennam. + +‘I saw you were reading,’ returned Doyce, as he entered, ‘and thought +you might not care to be disturbed.’ + +But for the notable resolution he had made, Clennam really might not +have known what he had been reading; really might not have had his eyes +upon the book for an hour past, though it lay open before him. He shut +it up, rather quickly. + +‘Are they well?’ he asked. + +‘Yes,’ said Doyce; ‘they are well. They are all well.’ + +Daniel had an old workmanlike habit of carrying his pocket-handkerchief +in his hat. He took it out and wiped his forehead with it, slowly +repeating, ‘They are all well. Miss Minnie looking particularly well, I +thought.’ + +‘Any company at the cottage?’ + +‘No, no company.’ + +‘And how did you get on, you four?’ asked Clennam gaily. + +‘There were five of us,’ returned his partner. ‘There was +What’s-his-name. He was there.’ + +‘Who is he?’ said Clennam. + +‘Mr Henry Gowan.’ + +‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Clennam with unusual vivacity, ‘Yes!--I forgot +him.’ + +‘As I mentioned, you may remember,’ said Daniel Doyce, ‘he is always +there on Sunday.’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ returned Clennam; ‘I remember now.’ + +Daniel Doyce, still wiping his forehead, ploddingly repeated. ‘Yes. He +was there, he was there. Oh yes, he was there. And his dog. _He_ was +there too.’ + +‘Miss Meagles is quite attached to--the--dog,’ observed Clennam. + +‘Quite so,’ assented his partner. ‘More attached to the dog than I am to +the man.’ + +‘You mean Mr--?’ + +‘I mean Mr Gowan, most decidedly,’ said Daniel Doyce. + +There was a gap in the conversation, which Clennam devoted to winding up +his watch. + +‘Perhaps you are a little hasty in your judgment,’ he said. ‘Our +judgments--I am supposing a general case--’ + +‘Of course,’ said Doyce. + +‘Are so liable to be influenced by many considerations, which, almost +without our knowing it, are unfair, that it is necessary to keep a guard +upon them. For instance, Mr--’ + +‘Gowan,’ quietly said Doyce, upon whom the utterance of the name almost +always devolved. + +‘Is young and handsome, easy and quick, has talent, and has seen a +good deal of various kinds of life. It might be difficult to give an +unselfish reason for being prepossessed against him.’ + +‘Not difficult for me, I think, Clennam,’ returned his partner. ‘I see +him bringing present anxiety, and, I fear, future sorrow, into my old +friend’s house. I see him wearing deeper lines into my old friend’s +face, the nearer he draws to, and the oftener he looks at, the face +of his daughter. In short, I see him with a net about the pretty and +affectionate creature whom he will never make happy.’ + +‘We don’t know,’ said Clennam, almost in the tone of a man in pain, +‘that he will not make her happy.’ + +‘We don’t know,’ returned his partner, ‘that the earth will last another +hundred years, but we think it highly probable.’ + +‘Well, well!’ said Clennam, ‘we must be hopeful, and we must at least +try to be, if not generous (which, in this case, we have no opportunity +of being), just. We will not disparage this gentleman, because he is +successful in his addresses to the beautiful object of his ambition; and +we will not question her natural right to bestow her love on one whom +she finds worthy of it.’ + +‘Maybe, my friend,’ said Doyce. ‘Maybe also, that she is too young and +petted, too confiding and inexperienced, to discriminate well.’ + +‘That,’ said Clennam, ‘would be far beyond our power of correction.’ + +Daniel Doyce shook his head gravely, and rejoined, ‘I fear so.’ + +‘Therefore, in a word,’ said Clennam, ‘we should make up our minds that +it is not worthy of us to say any ill of Mr Gowan. It would be a poor +thing to gratify a prejudice against him. And I resolve, for my part, +not to depreciate him.’ + +‘I am not quite so sure of myself, and therefore I reserve my privilege +of objecting to him,’ returned the other. ‘But, if I am not sure of +myself, I am sure of you, Clennam, and I know what an upright man you +are, and how much to be respected. Good night, _my_ friend and partner!’ +He shook his hand in saying this, as if there had been something serious +at the bottom of their conversation; and they separated. + +By this time they had visited the family on several occasions, and had +always observed that even a passing allusion to Mr Henry Gowan when +he was not among them, brought back the cloud which had obscured Mr +Meagles’s sunshine on the morning of the chance encounter at the Ferry. +If Clennam had ever admitted the forbidden passion into his breast, +this period might have been a period of real trial; under the actual +circumstances, doubtless it was nothing--nothing. + +Equally, if his heart had given entertainment to that prohibited guest, +his silent fighting of his way through the mental condition of this +period might have been a little meritorious. In the constant effort not +to be betrayed into a new phase of the besetting sin of his experience, +the pursuit of selfish objects by low and small means, and to hold +instead to some high principle of honour and generosity, there might +have been a little merit. In the resolution not even to avoid Mr +Meagles’s house, lest, in the selfish sparing of himself, he should +bring any slight distress upon the daughter through making her the cause +of an estrangement which he believed the father would regret, there +might have been a little merit. In the modest truthfulness of always +keeping in view the greater equality of Mr Gowan’s years and the greater +attractions of his person and manner, there might have been a little +merit. In doing all this and much more, in a perfectly unaffected way +and with a manful and composed constancy, while the pain within him +(peculiar as his life and history) was very sharp, there might have been +some quiet strength of character. But, after the resolution he had made, +of course he could have no such merits as these; and such a state of +mind was nobody’s--nobody’s. + +Mr Gowan made it no concern of his whether it was nobody’s or +somebody’s. He preserved his perfect serenity of manner on all +occasions, as if the possibility of Clennam’s presuming to have debated +the great question were too distant and ridiculous to be imagined. He +had always an affability to bestow on Clennam and an ease to treat +him with, which might of itself (in the supposititious case of his +not having taken that sagacious course) have been a very uncomfortable +element in his state of mind. + +‘I quite regret you were not with us yesterday,’ said Mr Henry Gowan, +calling on Clennam the next morning. ‘We had an agreeable day up the +river there.’ + +So he had heard, Arthur said. + +‘From your partner?’ returned Henry Gowan. ‘What a dear old fellow he +is!’ + +‘I have a great regard for him.’ + +‘By Jove, he is the finest creature!’ said Gowan. ‘So fresh, so green, +trusts in such wonderful things!’ + +Here was one of the many little rough points that had a tendency to +grate on Clennam’s hearing. He put it aside by merely repeating that he +had a high regard for Mr Doyce. + +‘He is charming! To see him mooning along to that time of life, +laying down nothing by the way and picking up nothing by the way, is +delightful. It warms a man. So unspoilt, so simple, such a good soul! +Upon my life Mr Clennam, one feels desperately worldly and wicked in +comparison with such an innocent creature. I speak for myself, let me +add, without including you. You are genuine also.’ + +‘Thank you for the compliment,’ said Clennam, ill at ease; ‘you are too, +I hope?’ + +‘So so,’ rejoined the other. ‘To be candid with you, tolerably. I am +not a great impostor. Buy one of my pictures, and I assure you, +in confidence, it will not be worth the money. Buy one of another +man’s--any great professor who beats me hollow--and the chances are that +the more you give him, the more he’ll impose upon you. They all do it.’ + +‘All painters?’ + +‘Painters, writers, patriots, all the rest who have stands in the +market. Give almost any man I know ten pounds, and he will impose upon +you to a corresponding extent; a thousand pounds--to a corresponding +extent; ten thousand pounds--to a corresponding extent. So great the +success, so great the imposition. But what a capital world it is!’ cried +Gowan with warm enthusiasm. ‘What a jolly, excellent, lovable world it +is!’ + +‘I had rather thought,’ said Clennam, ‘that the principle you mention +was chiefly acted on by--’ + +‘By the Barnacles?’ interrupted Gowan, laughing. + +‘By the political gentlemen who condescend to keep the Circumlocution +Office.’ + +‘Ah! Don’t be hard upon the Barnacles,’ said Gowan, laughing afresh, +‘they are darling fellows! Even poor little Clarence, the born idiot of +the family, is the most agreeable and most endearing blockhead! And by +Jupiter, with a kind of cleverness in him too that would astonish you!’ + +‘It would. Very much,’ said Clennam, drily. + +‘And after all,’ cried Gowan, with that characteristic balancing of his +which reduced everything in the wide world to the same light weight, +‘though I can’t deny that the Circumlocution Office may ultimately +shipwreck everybody and everything, still, that will probably not be in +our time--and it’s a school for gentlemen.’ + +‘It’s a very dangerous, unsatisfactory, and expensive school to the +people who pay to keep the pupils there, I am afraid,’ said Clennam, +shaking his head. + +‘Ah! You are a terrible fellow,’ returned Gowan, airily. ‘I can +understand how you have frightened that little donkey, Clarence, the +most estimable of moon-calves (I really love him) nearly out of his +wits. But enough of him, and of all the rest of them. I want to present +you to my mother, Mr Clennam. Pray do me the favour to give me the +opportunity.’ + +In nobody’s state of mind, there was nothing Clennam would have desired +less, or would have been more at a loss how to avoid. + +‘My mother lives in a most primitive manner down in that dreary +red-brick dungeon at Hampton Court,’ said Gowan. ‘If you would make +your own appointment, suggest your own day for permitting me to take +you there to dinner, you would be bored and she would be charmed. Really +that’s the state of the case.’ + +What could Clennam say after this? His retiring character included a +great deal that was simple in the best sense, because unpractised and +unused; and in his simplicity and modesty, he could only say that he was +happy to place himself at Mr Gowan’s disposal. Accordingly he said it, +and the day was fixed. And a dreaded day it was on his part, and a very +unwelcome day when it came and they went down to Hampton Court together. + +The venerable inhabitants of that venerable pile seemed, in those times, +to be encamped there like a sort of civilised gipsies. There was a +temporary air about their establishments, as if they were going away the +moment they could get anything better; there was also a dissatisfied air +about themselves, as if they took it very ill that they had not already +got something much better. Genteel blinds and makeshifts were more or +less observable as soon as their doors were opened; screens not half +high enough, which made dining-rooms out of arched passages, and warded +off obscure corners where footboys slept at nights with their heads +among the knives and forks; curtains which called upon you to believe +that they didn’t hide anything; panes of glass which requested you +not to see them; many objects of various forms, feigning to have no +connection with their guilty secret, a bed; disguised traps in walls, +which were clearly coal-cellars; affectations of no thoroughfares, which +were evidently doors to little kitchens. Mental reservations and artful +mysteries grew out of these things. Callers looking steadily into the +eyes of their receivers, pretended not to smell cooking three feet off; +people, confronting closets accidentally left open, pretended not to see +bottles; visitors with their heads against a partition of thin canvas, +and a page and a young female at high words on the other side, made +believe to be sitting in a primeval silence. There was no end to the +small social accommodation-bills of this nature which the gipsies of +gentility were constantly drawing upon, and accepting for, one another. + +Some of these Bohemians were of an irritable temperament, as constantly +soured and vexed by two mental trials: the first, the consciousness +that they had never got enough out of the public; the second, the +consciousness that the public were admitted into the building. Under the +latter great wrong, a few suffered dreadfully--particularly on Sundays, +when they had for some time expected the earth to open and swallow +the public up; but which desirable event had not yet occurred, in +consequence of some reprehensible laxity in the arrangements of the +Universe. + +Mrs Gowan’s door was attended by a family servant of several years’ +standing, who had his own crow to pluck with the public concerning a +situation in the Post-Office which he had been for some time expecting, +and to which he was not yet appointed. He perfectly knew that the public +could never have got him in, but he grimly gratified himself with the +idea that the public kept him out. Under the influence of this injury +(and perhaps of some little straitness and irregularity in the matter +of wages), he had grown neglectful of his person and morose in mind; +and now beholding in Clennam one of the degraded body of his oppressors, +received him with ignominy. + +Mrs Gowan, however, received him with condescension. He found her a +courtly old lady, formerly a Beauty, and still sufficiently +well-favoured to have dispensed with the powder on her nose and a +certain impossible bloom under each eye. She was a little lofty with +him; so was another old lady, dark-browed and high-nosed, and who must +have had something real about her or she could not have existed, but it +was certainly not her hair or her teeth or her figure or her complexion; +so was a grey old gentleman of dignified and sullen appearance; both of +whom had come to dinner. But, as they had all been in the British +Embassy way in sundry parts of the earth, and as a British Embassy +cannot better establish a character with the Circumlocution Office than +by treating its compatriots with illimitable contempt (else it would +become like the Embassies of other countries), Clennam felt that on the +whole they let him off lightly. + +The dignified old gentleman turned out to be Lord Lancaster +Stiltstalking, who had been maintained by the Circumlocution Office for +many years as a representative of the Britannic Majesty abroad. +This noble Refrigerator had iced several European courts in his time, +and had done it with such complete success that the very name of +Englishman yet struck cold to the stomachs of foreigners who had the +distinguished honour of remembering him at a distance of a quarter of a +century. + +He was now in retirement, and hence (in a ponderous white cravat, like +a stiff snow-drift) was so obliging as to shade the dinner. There was a +whisper of the pervading Bohemian character in the nomadic nature of +the service and its curious races of plates and dishes; but the noble +Refrigerator, infinitely better than plate or porcelain, made it superb. +He shaded the dinner, cooled the wines, chilled the gravy, and blighted +the vegetables. + +There was only one other person in the room: a microscopically small +footboy, who waited on the malevolent man who hadn’t got into the +Post-Office. Even this youth, if his jacket could have been unbuttoned +and his heart laid bare, would have been seen, as a distant adherent of +the Barnacle family, already to aspire to a situation under Government. + +Mrs Gowan with a gentle melancholy upon her, occasioned by her son’s +being reduced to court the swinish public as a follower of the low Arts, +instead of asserting his birthright and putting a ring through its nose +as an acknowledged Barnacle, headed the conversation at dinner on the +evil days. It was then that Clennam learned for the first time what +little pivots this great world goes round upon. + +‘If John Barnacle,’ said Mrs Gowan, after the degeneracy of the times +had been fully ascertained, ‘if John Barnacle had but abandoned his most +unfortunate idea of conciliating the mob, all would have been well, and +I think the country would have been preserved.’ + +The old lady with the high nose assented; but added that if Augustus +Stiltstalking had in a general way ordered the cavalry out with +instructions to charge, she thought the country would have been +preserved. + +The noble Refrigerator assented; but added that if William Barnacle and +Tudor Stiltstalking, when they came over to one another and formed +their ever-memorable coalition, had boldly muzzled the newspapers, +and rendered it penal for any Editor-person to presume to discuss the +conduct of any appointed authority abroad or at home, he thought the +country would have been preserved. + +It was agreed that the country (another word for the Barnacles and +Stiltstalkings) wanted preserving, but how it came to want preserving +was not so clear. It was only clear that the question was all about +John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor +Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, because +there was nobody else but mob. And this was the feature of the +conversation which impressed Clennam, as a man not used to it, very +disagreeably: making him doubt if it were quite right to sit there, +silently hearing a great nation narrowed to such little bounds. +Remembering, however, that in the Parliamentary debates, whether on the +life of that nation’s body or the life of its soul, the question was +usually all about and between John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, +William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle +or Stiltstalking, and nobody else; he said nothing on the part of mob, +bethinking himself that mob was used to it. + +Mr Henry Gowan seemed to have a malicious pleasure in playing off the +three talkers against each other, and in seeing Clennam startled by what +they said. Having as supreme a contempt for the class that had thrown +him off as for the class that had not taken him on, he had no personal +disquiet in anything that passed. His healthy state of mind appeared +even to derive a gratification from Clennam’s position of embarrassment +and isolation among the good company; and if Clennam had been in that +condition with which Nobody was incessantly contending, he would have +suspected it, and would have struggled with the suspicion as a meanness, +even while he sat at the table. + +In the course of a couple of hours the noble Refrigerator, at no time +less than a hundred years behind the period, got about five centuries +in arrears, and delivered solemn political oracles appropriate to that +epoch. He finished by freezing a cup of tea for his own drinking, +and retiring at his lowest temperature. + +Then Mrs Gowan, who had been accustomed in her days of a vacant +arm-chair beside her to which to summon state to retain her devoted +slaves, one by one, for short audiences as marks of her especial favour, +invited Clennam with a turn of her fan to approach the presence. He +obeyed, and took the tripod recently vacated by Lord Lancaster +Stiltstalking. + +‘Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘apart from the happiness I have in +becoming known to you, though in this odiously inconvenient place--a +mere barrack--there is a subject on which I am dying to speak to you. It +is the subject in connection with which my son first had, I believe, the +pleasure of cultivating your acquaintance.’ + +Clennam inclined his head, as a generally suitable reply to what he did +not yet quite understand. + +‘First,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘now, is she really pretty?’ + +In nobody’s difficulties, he would have found it very difficult to +answer; very difficult indeed to smile, and say ‘Who?’ + +‘Oh! You know!’ she returned. ‘This flame of Henry’s. This unfortunate +fancy. There! If it is a point of honour that I should originate the +name--Miss Mickles--Miggles.’ + +‘Miss Meagles,’ said Clennam, ‘is very beautiful.’ + +‘Men are so often mistaken on those points,’ returned Mrs Gowan, shaking +her head, ‘that I candidly confess to you I feel anything but sure of +it, even now; though it is something to have Henry corroborated with so +much gravity and emphasis. He picked the people up at Rome, I think?’ + +The phrase would have given nobody mortal offence. Clennam replied, +‘Excuse me, I doubt if I understand your expression.’ + +‘Picked the people up,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the sticks of her closed +fan (a large green one, which she used as a hand-screen) on her little +table. ‘Came upon them. Found them out. Stumbled against them.’ + +‘The people?’ + +‘Yes. The Miggles people.’ + +‘I really cannot say,’ said Clennam, ‘where my friend Mr Meagles first +presented Mr Henry Gowan to his daughter.’ + +‘I am pretty sure he picked her up at Rome; but never mind +where--somewhere. Now (this is entirely between ourselves), is she very +plebeian?’ + +‘Really, ma’am,’ returned Clennam, ‘I am so undoubtedly plebeian myself, +that I do not feel qualified to judge.’ + +‘Very neat!’ said Mrs Gowan, coolly unfurling her screen. ‘Very happy! +From which I infer that you secretly think her manner equal to her +looks?’ + +Clennam, after a moment’s stiffness, bowed. + +‘That’s comforting, and I hope you may be right. Did Henry tell me you +had travelled with them?’ + +‘I travelled with my friend Mr Meagles, and his wife and daughter, +during some months.’ (Nobody’s heart might have been wrung by the +remembrance.) + +‘Really comforting, because you must have had a large experience of +them. You see, Mr Clennam, this thing has been going on for a long time, +and I find no improvement in it. Therefore to have the opportunity of +speaking to one so well informed about it as yourself, is an immense +relief to me. Quite a boon. Quite a blessing, I am sure.’ + +‘Pardon me,’ returned Clennam, ‘but I am not in Mr Henry Gowan’s +confidence. I am far from being so well informed as you suppose me to +be. Your mistake makes my position a very delicate one. No word on this +topic has ever passed between Mr Henry Gowan and myself.’ + +Mrs Gowan glanced at the other end of the room, where her son was +playing ecarte on a sofa, with the old lady who was for a charge of +cavalry. + +‘Not in his confidence? No,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘No word has passed between +you? No. That I can imagine. But there are unexpressed confidences, Mr +Clennam; and as you have been together intimately among these people, I +cannot doubt that a confidence of that sort exists in the present case. +Perhaps you have heard that I have suffered the keenest distress of +mind from Henry’s having taken to a pursuit which--well!’ shrugging her +shoulders, ‘a very respectable pursuit, I dare say, and some artists +are, as artists, quite superior persons; still, we never yet in our +family have gone beyond an Amateur, and it is a pardonable weakness to +feel a little--’ + +As Mrs Gowan broke off to heave a sigh, Clennam, however resolute to +be magnanimous, could not keep down the thought that there was mighty +little danger of the family’s ever going beyond an Amateur, even as it +was. + +‘Henry,’ the mother resumed, ‘is self-willed and resolute; and as these +people naturally strain every nerve to catch him, I can entertain very +little hope, Mr Clennam, that the thing will be broken off. I apprehend +the girl’s fortune will be very small; Henry might have done much +better; there is scarcely anything to compensate for the connection: +still, he acts for himself; and if I find no improvement within a short +time, I see no other course than to resign myself and make the best of +these people. I am infinitely obliged to you for what you have told +me.’ + +As she shrugged her shoulders, Clennam stiffly bowed again. With an +uneasy flush upon his face, and hesitation in his manner, he then said +in a still lower tone than he had adopted yet: + +‘Mrs Gowan, I scarcely know how to acquit myself of what I feel to be a +duty, and yet I must ask you for your kind consideration in +attempting to discharge it. A misconception on your part, a very great +misconception if I may venture to call it so, seems to require setting +right. You have supposed Mr Meagles and his family to strain every +nerve, I think you said--’ + +‘Every nerve,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, looking at him in calm obstinacy, +with her green fan between her face and the fire. + +‘To secure Mr Henry Gowan?’ + +The lady placidly assented. + +‘Now that is so far,’ said Arthur, ‘from being the case, that I know +Mr Meagles to be unhappy in this matter; and to have interposed all +reasonable obstacles with the hope of putting an end to it.’ + +Mrs Gowan shut up her great green fan, tapped him on the arm with it, +and tapped her smiling lips. ‘Why, of course,’ said she. ‘Just what I +mean.’ + +Arthur watched her face for some explanation of what she did mean. + +‘Are you really serious, Mr Clennam? Don’t you see?’ + +Arthur did not see; and said so. + +‘Why, don’t I know my son, and don’t I know that this is exactly the way +to hold him?’ said Mrs Gowan, contemptuously; ‘and do not these Miggles +people know it, at least as well as I? Oh, shrewd people, Mr Clennam: +evidently people of business! I believe Miggles belonged to a Bank. It +ought to have been a very profitable Bank, if he had much to do with its +management. This is very well done, indeed.’ + +‘I beg and entreat you, ma’am--’ Arthur interposed. + +‘Oh, Mr Clennam, can you really be so credulous?’ + +It made such a painful impression upon him to hear her talking in this +haughty tone, and to see her patting her contemptuous lips with her +fan, that he said very earnestly, ‘Believe me, ma’am, this is unjust, a +perfectly groundless suspicion.’ + +‘Suspicion?’ repeated Mrs Gowan. ‘Not suspicion, Mr Clennam, Certainty. +It is very knowingly done indeed, and seems to have taken _you_ in +completely.’ She laughed; and again sat tapping her lips with her fan, +and tossing her head, as if she added, ‘Don’t tell me. I know such +people will do anything for the honour of such an alliance.’ + +At this opportune moment, the cards were thrown up, and Mr Henry Gowan +came across the room saying, ‘Mother, if you can spare Mr Clennam for +this time, we have a long way to go, and it’s getting late.’ Mr Clennam +thereupon rose, as he had no choice but to do; and Mrs Gowan showed him, +to the last, the same look and the same tapped contemptuous lips. + +‘You have had a portentously long audience of my mother,’ said Gowan, as +the door closed upon them. ‘I fervently hope she has not bored you?’ + +‘Not at all,’ said Clennam. + +They had a little open phaeton for the journey, and were soon in it on +the road home. Gowan, driving, lighted a cigar; Clennam declined one. Do +what he would, he fell into such a mood of abstraction that Gowan said +again, ‘I am very much afraid my mother has bored you?’ To which he +roused himself to answer, ‘Not at all!’ and soon relapsed again. + +In that state of mind which rendered nobody uneasy, his thoughtfulness +would have turned principally on the man at his side. He would have +thought of the morning when he first saw him rooting out the stones with +his heel, and would have asked himself, ‘Does he jerk me out of the +path in the same careless, cruel way?’ He would have thought, had this +introduction to his mother been brought about by him because he knew +what she would say, and that he could thus place his position before +a rival and loftily warn him off, without himself reposing a word of +confidence in him? He would have thought, even if there were no such +design as that, had he brought him there to play with his repressed +emotions, and torment him? The current of these meditations would have +been stayed sometimes by a rush of shame, bearing a remonstrance to +himself from his own open nature, representing that to shelter such +suspicions, even for the passing moment, was not to hold the high, +unenvious course he had resolved to keep. At those times, the striving +within him would have been hardest; and looking up and catching Gowan’s +eyes, he would have started as if he had done him an injury. + +Then, looking at the dark road and its uncertain objects, he would have +gradually trailed off again into thinking, ‘Where are we driving, he +and I, I wonder, on the darker road of life? How will it be with us, and +with her, in the obscure distance?’ Thinking of her, he would have been +troubled anew with a reproachful misgiving that it was not even loyal to +her to dislike him, and that in being so easily prejudiced against him +he was less deserving of her than at first. + +‘You are evidently out of spirits,’ said Gowan; ‘I am very much afraid +my mother must have bored you dreadfully.’ + +‘Believe me, not at all,’ said Clennam. ‘It’s nothing--nothing!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 27. Five-and-Twenty + +A frequently recurring doubt, whether Mr Pancks’s desire to collect +information relative to the Dorrit family could have any possible +bearing on the misgivings he had imparted to his mother on his return +from his long exile, caused Arthur Clennam much uneasiness at this +period. What Mr Pancks already knew about the Dorrit family, what more +he really wanted to find out, and why he should trouble his busy head +about them at all, were questions that often perplexed him. Mr Pancks +was not a man to waste his time and trouble in researches prompted by +idle curiosity. That he had a specific object Clennam could not doubt. +And whether the attainment of that object by Mr Pancks’s industry might +bring to light, in some untimely way, secret reasons which had induced +his mother to take Little Dorrit by the hand, was a serious speculation. + +Not that he ever wavered either in his desire or his determination to +repair a wrong that had been done in his father’s time, should a +wrong come to light, and be reparable. The shadow of a supposed act +of injustice, which had hung over him since his father’s death, was +so vague and formless that it might be the result of a reality widely +remote from his idea of it. But, if his apprehensions should prove to +be well founded, he was ready at any moment to lay down all he had, and +begin the world anew. As the fierce dark teaching of his childhood had +never sunk into his heart, so that first article in his code of morals +was, that he must begin, in practical humility, with looking well to +his feet on Earth, and that he could never mount on wings of words to +Heaven. Duty on earth, restitution on earth, action on earth; these +first, as the first steep steps upward. Strait was the gate and narrow +was the way; far straiter and narrower than the broad high road paved +with vain professions and vain repetitions, motes from other men’s eyes +and liberal delivery of others to the judgment--all cheap materials +costing absolutely nothing. + +No. It was not a selfish fear or hesitation that rendered him +uneasy, but a mistrust lest Pancks might not observe his part of the +understanding between them, and, making any discovery, might take some +course upon it without imparting it to him. On the other hand, when he +recalled his conversation with Pancks, and the little reason he had to +suppose that there was any likelihood of that strange personage being +on that track at all, there were times when he wondered that he made so +much of it. Labouring in this sea, as all barks labour in cross seas, he +tossed about and came to no haven. + +The removal of Little Dorrit herself from their customary association, +did not mend the matter. She was so much out, and so much in her own +room, that he began to miss her and to find a blank in her place. He had +written to her to inquire if she were better, and she had written +back, very gratefully and earnestly telling him not to be uneasy on her +behalf, for she was quite well; but he had not seen her, for what, in +their intercourse, was a long time. + +He returned home one evening from an interview with her father, who had +mentioned that she was out visiting--which was what he always said +when she was hard at work to buy his supper--and found Mr Meagles in an +excited state walking up and down his room. On his opening the door, Mr +Meagles stopped, faced round, and said: + +‘Clennam!--Tattycoram!’ + +‘What’s the matter?’ + +‘Lost!’ + +‘Why, bless my heart alive!’ cried Clennam in amazement. ‘What do you +mean?’ + +‘Wouldn’t count five-and-twenty, sir; couldn’t be got to do it; stopped +at eight, and took herself off.’ + +‘Left your house?’ + +‘Never to come back,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head. ‘You don’t know +that girl’s passionate and proud character. A team of horses couldn’t +draw her back now; the bolts and bars of the old Bastille couldn’t keep +her.’ + +‘How did it happen? Pray sit down and tell me.’ + +‘As to how it happened, it’s not so easy to relate: because you must +have the unfortunate temperament of the poor impetuous girl herself, +before you can fully understand it. But it came about in this way. Pet +and Mother and I have been having a good deal of talk together of late. +I’ll not disguise from you, Clennam, that those conversations have not +been of as bright a kind as I could wish; they have referred to our +going away again. In proposing to do which, I have had, in fact, an +object.’ + +Nobody’s heart beat quickly. + +‘An object,’ said Mr Meagles, after a moment’s pause, ‘that I will not +disguise from you, either, Clennam. There’s an inclination on the part +of my dear child which I am sorry for. Perhaps you guess the person. +Henry Gowan.’ + +‘I was not unprepared to hear it.’ + +‘Well!’ said Mr Meagles, with a heavy sigh, ‘I wish to God you had never +had to hear it. However, so it is. Mother and I have done all we could +to get the better of it, Clennam. We have tried tender advice, we +have tried time, we have tried absence. As yet, of no use. Our late +conversations have been upon the subject of going away for another year +at least, in order that there might be an entire separation and breaking +off for that term. Upon that question, Pet has been unhappy, and +therefore Mother and I have been unhappy.’ + +Clennam said that he could easily believe it. + +‘Well!’ continued Mr Meagles in an apologetic way, ‘I admit as a +practical man, and I am sure Mother would admit as a practical woman, +that we do, in families, magnify our troubles and make mountains of our +molehills in a way that is calculated to be rather trying to people who +look on--to mere outsiders, you know, Clennam. Still, Pet’s happiness +or unhappiness is quite a life or death question with us; and we may be +excused, I hope, for making much of it. At all events, it might have +been borne by Tattycoram. Now, don’t you think so?’ + +‘I do indeed think so,’ returned Clennam, in most emphatic recognition +of this very moderate expectation. + +‘No, sir,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head ruefully. ‘She couldn’t +stand it. The chafing and firing of that girl, the wearing and tearing +of that girl within her own breast, has been such that I have +softly said to her again and again in passing her, “Five-and-twenty, +Tattycoram, five-and-twenty!” I heartily wish she could have gone +on counting five-and-twenty day and night, and then it wouldn’t have +happened.’ + +Mr Meagles with a despondent countenance in which the goodness of his +heart was even more expressed than in his times of cheerfulness and +gaiety, stroked his face down from his forehead to his chin, and shook +his head again. + +‘I said to Mother (not that it was necessary, for she would have thought +it all for herself), we are practical people, my dear, and we know her +story; we see in this unhappy girl some reflection of what was raging in +her mother’s heart before ever such a creature as this poor thing was +in the world; we’ll gloss her temper over, Mother, we won’t notice it at +present, my dear, we’ll take advantage of some better disposition in her +another time. So we said nothing. But, do what we would, it seems as if +it was to be; she broke out violently one night.’ + +‘How, and why?’ + +‘If you ask me Why,’ said Mr Meagles, a little disturbed by the +question, for he was far more intent on softening her case than the +family’s, ‘I can only refer you to what I have just repeated as having +been pretty near my words to Mother. As to How, we had said Good night +to Pet in her presence (very affectionately, I must allow), and she +had attended Pet up-stairs--you remember she was her maid. Perhaps Pet, +having been out of sorts, may have been a little more inconsiderate than +usual in requiring services of her: but I don’t know that I have any +right to say so; she was always thoughtful and gentle.’ + +‘The gentlest mistress in the world.’ + +‘Thank you, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand; ‘you +have often seen them together. Well! We presently heard this unfortunate +Tattycoram loud and angry, and before we could ask what was the matter, +Pet came back in a tremble, saying she was frightened of her. Close +after her came Tattycoram in a flaming rage. “I hate you all three,” + says she, stamping her foot at us. “I am bursting with hate of the whole +house.”’ + +‘Upon which you--?’ + +‘I?’ said Mr Meagles, with a plain good faith that might have commanded +the belief of Mrs Gowan herself. ‘I said, count five-and-twenty, +Tattycoram.’ + +Mr Meagles again stroked his face and shook his head, with an air of +profound regret. + +‘She was so used to do it, Clennam, that even then, such a picture of +passion as you never saw, she stopped short, looked me full in the face, +and counted (as I made out) to eight. But she couldn’t control herself +to go any further. There she broke down, poor thing, and gave the other +seventeen to the four winds. Then it all burst out. She detested us, she +was miserable with us, she couldn’t bear it, she wouldn’t bear it, she +was determined to go away. She was younger than her young mistress, and +would she remain to see her always held up as the only creature who was +young and interesting, and to be cherished and loved? No. She wouldn’t, +she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t! What did we think she, Tattycoram, might +have been if she had been caressed and cared for in her childhood, like +her young mistress? As good as her? Ah! Perhaps fifty times as good. +When we pretended to be so fond of one another, we exulted over her; +that was what we did; we exulted over her and shamed her. And all in +the house did the same. They talked about their fathers and mothers, and +brothers and sisters; they liked to drag them up before her face. There +was Mrs Tickit, only yesterday, when her little grandchild was with her, +had been amused by the child’s trying to call her (Tattycoram) by the +wretched name we gave her; and had laughed at the name. Why, who didn’t; +and who were we that we should have a right to name her like a dog or a +cat? But she didn’t care. She would take no more benefits from us; she +would fling us her name back again, and she would go. She would leave +us that minute, nobody should stop her, and we should never hear of her +again.’ + +Mr Meagles had recited all this with such a vivid remembrance of his +original, that he was almost as flushed and hot by this time as he +described her to have been. + +‘Ah, well!’ he said, wiping his face. ‘It was of no use trying reason +then, with that vehement panting creature (Heaven knows what her +mother’s story must have been); so I quietly told her that she should +not go at that late hour of night, and I gave her my hand and took her +to her room, and locked the house doors. But she was gone this morning.’ + +‘And you know no more of her?’ + +‘No more,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘I have been hunting about all day. She +must have gone very early and very silently. I have found no trace of +her down about us.’ + +‘Stay! You want,’ said Clennam, after a moment’s reflection, ‘to see +her? I assume that?’ + +‘Yes, assuredly; I want to give her another chance; Mother and Pet +want to give her another chance; come! You yourself,’ said Mr Meagles, +persuasively, as if the provocation to be angry were not his own at all, +‘want to give the poor passionate girl another chance, I know, Clennam.’ + +‘It would be strange and hard indeed if I did not,’ said Clennam, ‘when +you are all so forgiving. What I was going to ask you was, have you +thought of that Miss Wade?’ + +‘I have. I did not think of her until I had pervaded the whole of our +neighbourhood, and I don’t know that I should have done so then but +for finding Mother and Pet, when I went home, full of the idea that +Tattycoram must have gone to her. Then, of course, I recalled what she +said that day at dinner when you were first with us.’ + +‘Have you any idea where Miss Wade is to be found?’ + +‘To tell you the truth,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘it’s because I have an +addled jumble of a notion on that subject that you found me waiting +here. There is one of those odd impressions in my house, which do +mysteriously get into houses sometimes, which nobody seems to have +picked up in a distinct form from anybody, and yet which everybody seems +to have got hold of loosely from somebody and let go again, that she +lives, or was living, thereabouts.’ Mr Meagles handed him a slip of +paper, on which was written the name of one of the dull by-streets in +the Grosvenor region, near Park Lane. + +‘Here is no number,’ said Arthur looking over it. + +‘No number, my dear Clennam?’ returned his friend. ‘No anything! The +very name of the street may have been floating in the air; for, as I +tell you, none of my people can say where they got it from. However, +it’s worth an inquiry; and as I would rather make it in company than +alone, and as you too were a fellow-traveller of that immovable woman’s, +I thought perhaps--’ Clennam finished the sentence for him by taking up +his hat again, and saying he was ready. + +It was now summer-time; a grey, hot, dusty evening. They rode to the top +of Oxford Street, and there alighting, dived in among the great streets +of melancholy stateliness, and the little streets that try to be as +stately and succeed in being more melancholy, of which there is a +labyrinth near Park Lane. Wildernesses of corner houses, with barbarous +old porticoes and appurtenances; horrors that came into existence under +some wrong-headed person in some wrong-headed time, still demanding +the blind admiration of all ensuing generations and determined to do +so until they tumbled down; frowned upon the twilight. Parasite little +tenements, with the cramp in their whole frame, from the dwarf hall-door +on the giant model of His Grace’s in the Square to the squeezed window +of the boudoir commanding the dunghills in the Mews, made the evening +doleful. Rickety dwellings of undoubted fashion, but of a capacity to +hold nothing comfortably except a dismal smell, looked like the last +result of the great mansions’ breeding in-and-in; and, where their +little supplementary bows and balconies were supported on thin iron +columns, seemed to be scrofulously resting upon crutches. Here and +there a Hatchment, with the whole science of Heraldry in it, loomed down +upon the street, like an Archbishop discoursing on Vanity. The shops, +few in number, made no show; for popular opinion was as nothing to them. +The pastrycook knew who was on his books, and in that knowledge could be +calm, with a few glass cylinders of dowager peppermint-drops in his +window, and half-a-dozen ancient specimens of currant-jelly. A few +oranges formed the greengrocer’s whole concession to the vulgar mind. A +single basket made of moss, once containing plovers’ eggs, held all that +the poulterer had to say to the rabble. Everybody in those streets +seemed (which is always the case at that hour and season) to be gone out +to dinner, and nobody seemed to be giving the dinners they had gone to. +On the doorsteps there were lounging footmen with bright parti-coloured +plumage and white polls, like an extinct race of monstrous birds; and +butlers, solitary men of recluse demeanour, each of whom appeared +distrustful of all other butlers. The roll of carriages in the Park was +done for the day; the street lamps were lighting; and wicked little +grooms in the tightest fitting garments, with twists in their legs +answering to the twists in their minds, hung about in pairs, chewing +straws and exchanging fraudulent secrets. The spotted dogs who went out +with the carriages, and who were so associated with splendid equipages +that it looked like a condescension in those animals to come out without +them, accompanied helpers to and fro on messages. Here and there was a +retiring public-house which did not require to be supported on the +shoulders of the people, and where gentlemen out of livery were not much +wanted. + +This last discovery was made by the two friends in pursuing their +inquiries. Nothing was there, or anywhere, known of such a person as +Miss Wade, in connection with the street they sought. It was one of the +parasite streets; long, regular, narrow, dull and gloomy; like a brick +and mortar funeral. They inquired at several little area gates, where +a dejected youth stood spiking his chin on the summit of a precipitous +little shoot of wooden steps, but could gain no information. They walked +up the street on one side of the way, and down it on the other, what +time two vociferous news-sellers, announcing an extraordinary event that +had never happened and never would happen, pitched their hoarse voices +into the secret chambers; but nothing came of it. At length they stood +at the corner from which they had begun, and it had fallen quite dark, +and they were no wiser. + +It happened that in the street they had several times passed a dingy +house, apparently empty, with bills in the windows, announcing that it +was to let. The bills, as a variety in the funeral procession, almost +amounted to a decoration. Perhaps because they kept the house separated +in his mind, or perhaps because Mr Meagles and himself had twice agreed +in passing, ‘It is clear she don’t live there,’ Clennam now proposed +that they should go back and try that house before finally going away. +Mr Meagles agreed, and back they went. + +They knocked once, and they rang once, without any response. ‘Empty,’ +said Mr Meagles, listening. ‘Once more,’ said Clennam, and knocked +again. After that knock they heard a movement below, and somebody +shuffling up towards the door. + +The confined entrance was so dark that it was impossible to make out +distinctly what kind of person opened the door; but it appeared to be an +old woman. ‘Excuse our troubling you,’ said Clennam. ‘Pray can you +tell us where Miss Wade lives?’ The voice in the darkness unexpectedly +replied, ‘Lives here.’ + +‘Is she at home?’ + +No answer coming, Mr Meagles asked again. ‘Pray is she at home?’ + +After another delay, ‘I suppose she is,’ said the voice abruptly; ‘you +had better come in, and I’ll ask.’ + +They were summarily shut into the close black house; and the figure +rustling away, and speaking from a higher level, said, ‘Come up, if you +please; you can’t tumble over anything.’ They groped their way up-stairs +towards a faint light, which proved to be the light of the street +shining through a window; and the figure left them shut in an airless +room. + +‘This is odd, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, softly. + +‘Odd enough,’ assented Clennam in the same tone, ‘but we have succeeded; +that’s the main point. Here’s a light coming!’ + +The light was a lamp, and the bearer was an old woman: very dirty, very +wrinkled and dry. ‘She’s at home,’ she said (and the voice was the same +that had spoken before); ‘she’ll come directly.’ Having set the lamp +down on the table, the old woman dusted her hands on her apron, which +she might have done for ever without cleaning them, looked at the +visitors with a dim pair of eyes, and backed out. + +The lady whom they had come to see, if she were the present occupant +of the house, appeared to have taken up her quarters there as she might +have established herself in an Eastern caravanserai. A small square +of carpet in the middle of the room, a few articles of furniture that +evidently did not belong to the room, and a disorder of trunks and +travelling articles, formed the whole of her surroundings. Under some +former regular inhabitant, the stifling little apartment had broken out +into a pier-glass and a gilt table; but the gilding was as faded as last +year’s flowers, and the glass was so clouded that it seemed to hold in +magic preservation all the fogs and bad weather it had ever reflected. +The visitors had had a minute or two to look about them, when the door +opened and Miss Wade came in. + +She was exactly the same as when they had parted, just as handsome, just +as scornful, just as repressed. She manifested no surprise in seeing +them, nor any other emotion. She requested them to be seated; and +declining to take a seat herself, at once anticipated any introduction +of their business. + +‘I apprehend,’ she said, ‘that I know the cause of your favouring me +with this visit. We may come to it at once.’ + +‘The cause then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is Tattycoram.’ + +‘So I supposed.’ + +‘Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘will you be so kind as to say whether you +know anything of her?’ + +‘Surely. I know she is here with me.’ + +‘Then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘allow me to make known to you that I +shall be happy to have her back, and that my wife and daughter will +be happy to have her back. She has been with us a long time: we don’t +forget her claims upon us, and I hope we know how to make allowances.’ + +‘You hope to know how to make allowances?’ she returned, in a level, +measured voice. ‘For what?’ + +‘I think my friend would say, Miss Wade,’ Arthur Clennam interposed, +seeing Mr Meagles rather at a loss, ‘for the passionate sense that +sometimes comes upon the poor girl, of being at a disadvantage. Which +occasionally gets the better of better remembrances.’ + +The lady broke into a smile as she turned her eyes upon him. ‘Indeed?’ +was all she answered. + +She stood by the table so perfectly composed and still after this +acknowledgment of his remark that Mr Meagles stared at her under a sort +of fascination, and could not even look to Clennam to make another move. +After waiting, awkwardly enough, for some moments, Arthur said: + +‘Perhaps it would be well if Mr Meagles could see her, Miss Wade?’ + +‘That is easily done,’ said she. ‘Come here, child.’ She had opened a +door while saying this, and now led the girl in by the hand. It was +very curious to see them standing together: the girl with her disengaged +fingers plaiting the bosom of her dress, half irresolutely, half +passionately; Miss Wade with her composed face attentively regarding +her, and suggesting to an observer, with extraordinary force, in her +composure itself (as a veil will suggest the form it covers), the +unquenchable passion of her own nature. + +‘See here,’ she said, in the same level way as before. ‘Here is your +patron, your master. He is willing to take you back, my dear, if you are +sensible of the favour and choose to go. You can be, again, a foil to +his pretty daughter, a slave to her pleasant wilfulness, and a toy in +the house showing the goodness of the family. You can have your droll +name again, playfully pointing you out and setting you apart, as it is +right that you should be pointed out and set apart. (Your birth, you +know; you must not forget your birth.) You can again be shown to this +gentleman’s daughter, Harriet, and kept before her, as a living reminder +of her own superiority and her gracious condescension. You can recover +all these advantages and many more of the same kind which I dare say +start up in your memory while I speak, and which you lose in taking +refuge with me--you can recover them all by telling these gentlemen how +humbled and penitent you are, and by going back to them to be forgiven. +What do you say, Harriet? Will you go?’ + +The girl who, under the influence of these words, had gradually risen +in anger and heightened in colour, answered, raising her lustrous black +eyes for the moment, and clenching her hand upon the folds it had been +puckering up, ‘I’d die sooner!’ + +Miss Wade, still standing at her side holding her hand, looked quietly +round and said with a smile, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’ + +Poor Mr Meagles’s inexpressible consternation in hearing his motives and +actions so perverted, had prevented him from interposing any word until +now; but now he regained the power of speech. + +‘Tattycoram,’ said he, ‘for I’ll call you by that name still, my good +girl, conscious that I meant nothing but kindness when I gave it to you, +and conscious that you know it--’ + +‘I don’t!’ said she, looking up again, and almost rending herself with +the same busy hand. + +‘No, not now, perhaps,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘not with that lady’s eyes so +intent upon you, Tattycoram,’ she glanced at them for a moment, ‘and +that power over you, which we see she exercises; not now, perhaps, but +at another time. Tattycoram, I’ll not ask that lady whether she believes +what she has said, even in the anger and ill blood in which I and my +friend here equally know she has spoken, though she subdues herself, +with a determination that any one who has once seen her is not likely +to forget. I’ll not ask you, with your remembrance of my house and all +belonging to it, whether you believe it. I’ll only say that you have +no profession to make to me or mine, and no forgiveness to entreat; +and that all in the world that I ask you to do, is, to count +five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’ + +She looked at him for an instant, and then said frowningly, ‘I won’t. +Miss Wade, take me away, please.’ + +The contention that raged within her had no softening in it now; it +was wholly between passionate defiance and stubborn defiance. Her rich +colour, her quick blood, her rapid breath, were all setting themselves +against the opportunity of retracing their steps. ‘I won’t. I won’t. +I won’t!’ she repeated in a low, thick voice. ‘I’d be torn to pieces +first. I’d tear myself to pieces first!’ + +Miss Wade, who had released her hold, laid her hand protectingly on the +girl’s neck for a moment, and then said, looking round with her former +smile and speaking exactly in her former tone, ‘Gentlemen! What do you +do upon that?’ + +‘Oh, Tattycoram, Tattycoram!’ cried Mr Meagles, adjuring her besides +with an earnest hand. ‘Hear that lady’s voice, look at that lady’s face, +consider what is in that lady’s heart, and think what a future lies +before you. My child, whatever you may think, that lady’s influence +over you--astonishing to us, and I should hardly go too far in saying +terrible to us to see--is founded in passion fiercer than yours, and +temper more violent than yours. What can you two be together? What can +come of it?’ + +‘I am alone here, gentlemen,’ observed Miss Wade, with no change of +voice or manner. ‘Say anything you will.’ + +‘Politeness must yield to this misguided girl, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, +‘at her present pass; though I hope not altogether to dismiss it, +even with the injury you do her so strongly before me. Excuse me for +reminding you in her hearing--I must say it--that you were a mystery +to all of us, and had nothing in common with any of us when she +unfortunately fell in your way. I don’t know what you are, but you don’t +hide, can’t hide, what a dark spirit you have within you. If it should +happen that you are a woman, who, from whatever cause, has a perverted +delight in making a sister-woman as wretched as she is (I am old enough +to have heard of such), I warn her against you, and I warn you against +yourself.’ + +‘Gentlemen!’ said Miss Wade, calmly. ‘When you have concluded--Mr +Clennam, perhaps you will induce your friend--’ + +‘Not without another effort,’ said Mr Meagles, stoutly. ‘Tattycoram, +my poor dear girl, count five-and-twenty.’ + +‘Do not reject the hope, the certainty, this kind man offers you,’ said +Clennam in a low emphatic voice. ‘Turn to the friends you have not +forgotten. Think once more!’ + +‘I won’t! Miss Wade,’ said the girl, with her bosom swelling high, and +speaking with her hand held to her throat, ‘take me away!’ + +‘Tattycoram,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Once more yet! The only thing I ask of +you in the world, my child! Count five-and-twenty!’ + +She put her hands tightly over her ears, confusedly tumbling down her +bright black hair in the vehemence of the action, and turned her face +resolutely to the wall. Miss Wade, who had watched her under this final +appeal with that strange attentive smile, and that repressing hand +upon her own bosom with which she had watched her in her struggle at +Marseilles, then put her arm about her waist as if she took possession +of her for evermore. + +And there was a visible triumph in her face when she turned it to +dismiss the visitors. + +‘As it is the last time I shall have the honour,’ she said, ‘and as you +have spoken of not knowing what I am, and also of the foundation of my +influence here, you may now know that it is founded in a common cause. +What your broken plaything is as to birth, I am. She has no name, I have +no name. Her wrong is my wrong. I have nothing more to say to you.’ + +This was addressed to Mr Meagles, who sorrowfully went out. As Clennam +followed, she said to him, with the same external composure and in the +same level voice, but with a smile that is only seen on cruel faces: a +very faint smile, lifting the nostril, scarcely touching the lips, and +not breaking away gradually, but instantly dismissed when done with: + +‘I hope the wife of your dear friend Mr Gowan, may be happy in the +contrast of her extraction to this girl’s and mine, and in the high good +fortune that awaits her.’ + + + + +CHAPTER 28. Nobody’s Disappearance + + +Not resting satisfied with the endeavours he had made to recover his +lost charge, Mr Meagles addressed a letter of remonstrance, breathing +nothing but goodwill, not only to her, but to Miss Wade too. No answer +coming to these epistles, or to another written to the stubborn girl +by the hand of her late young mistress, which might have melted her +if anything could (all three letters were returned weeks afterwards as +having been refused at the house-door), he deputed Mrs Meagles to make +the experiment of a personal interview. That worthy lady being unable to +obtain one, and being steadfastly denied admission, Mr Meagles besought +Arthur to essay once more what he could do. All that came of his +compliance was, his discovery that the empty house was left in charge +of the old woman, that Miss Wade was gone, that the waifs and strays of +furniture were gone, and that the old woman would accept any number of +half-crowns and thank the donor kindly, but had no information whatever +to exchange for those coins, beyond constantly offering for perusal a +memorandum relative to fixtures, which the house-agent’s young man had +left in the hall. + +Unwilling, even under this discomfiture, to resign the ingrate and leave +her hopeless, in case of her better dispositions obtaining the mastery +over the darker side of her character, Mr Meagles, for six successive +days, published a discreetly covert advertisement in the morning papers, +to the effect that if a certain young person who had lately left +home without reflection, would at any time apply to his address at +Twickenham, everything would be as it had been before, and no reproaches +need be apprehended. The unexpected consequences of this notification +suggested to the dismayed Mr Meagles for the first time that some +hundreds of young persons must be leaving their homes without reflection +every day; for shoals of wrong young people came down to Twickenham, +who, not finding themselves received with enthusiasm, generally demanded +compensation by way of damages, in addition to coach-hire there and +back. Nor were these the only uninvited clients whom the advertisement +produced. The swarm of begging-letter writers, who would seem to be +always watching eagerly for any hook, however small, to hang a letter +upon, wrote to say that having seen the advertisement, they were induced +to apply with confidence for various sums, ranging from ten shillings to +fifty pounds: not because they knew anything about the young person, +but because they felt that to part with those donations would greatly +relieve the advertiser’s mind. Several projectors, likewise, availed +themselves of the same opportunity to correspond with Mr Meagles; as, +for example, to apprise him that their attention having been called to +the advertisement by a friend, they begged to state that if they should +ever hear anything of the young person, they would not fail to make it +known to him immediately, and that in the meantime if he would oblige +them with the funds necessary for bringing to perfection a certain +entirely novel description of Pump, the happiest results would ensue to +mankind. + +Mr Meagles and his family, under these combined discouragements, had +begun reluctantly to give up Tattycoram as irrecoverable, when the new +and active firm of Doyce and Clennam, in their private capacities, +went down on a Saturday to stay at the cottage until Monday. The senior +partner took the coach, and the junior partner took his walking-stick. + +A tranquil summer sunset shone upon him as he approached the end of +his walk, and passed through the meadows by the river side. He had +that sense of peace, and of being lightened of a weight of care, which +country quiet awakens in the breasts of dwellers in towns. Everything +within his view was lovely and placid. The rich foliage of the trees, +the luxuriant grass diversified with wild flowers, the little green +islands in the river, the beds of rushes, the water-lilies floating on +the surface of the stream, the distant voices in boats borne musically +towards him on the ripple of the water and the evening air, were all +expressive of rest. In the occasional leap of a fish, or dip of an oar, +or twittering of a bird not yet at roost, or distant barking of a dog, +or lowing of a cow--in all such sounds, there was the prevailing breath +of rest, which seemed to encompass him in every scent that sweetened +the fragrant air. The long lines of red and gold in the sky, and the +glorious track of the descending sun, were all divinely calm. Upon the +purple tree-tops far away, and on the green height near at hand up which +the shades were slowly creeping, there was an equal hush. Between the +real landscape and its shadow in the water, there was no division; both +were so untroubled and clear, and, while so fraught with solemn mystery +of life and death, so hopefully reassuring to the gazer’s soothed heart, +because so tenderly and mercifully beautiful. + +Clennam had stopped, not for the first time by many times, to look about +him and suffer what he saw to sink into his soul, as the shadows, looked +at, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the water. He was slowly +resuming his way, when he saw a figure in the path before him which he +had, perhaps, already associated with the evening and its impressions. + +Minnie was there, alone. She had some roses in her hand, and seemed to +have stood still on seeing him, waiting for him. Her face was towards +him, and she appeared to have been coming from the opposite direction. +There was a flutter in her manner, which Clennam had never seen in it +before; and as he came near her, it entered his mind all at once that +she was there of a set purpose to speak to him. + +She gave him her hand, and said, ‘You wonder to see me here by myself? +But the evening is so lovely, I have strolled further than I meant +at first. I thought it likely I might meet you, and that made me more +confident. You always come this way, do you not?’ + +As Clennam said that it was his favourite way, he felt her hand falter +on his arm, and saw the roses shake. + +‘Will you let me give you one, Mr Clennam? I gathered them as I came out +of the garden. Indeed, I almost gathered them for you, thinking it so +likely I might meet you. Mr Doyce arrived more than an hour ago, and +told us you were walking down.’ + +His own hand shook, as he accepted a rose or two from hers and thanked +her. They were now by an avenue of trees. Whether they turned into it on +his movement or on hers matters little. He never knew how that was. + +‘It is very grave here,’ said Clennam, ‘but very pleasant at this hour. +Passing along this deep shade, and out at that arch of light at the +other end, we come upon the ferry and the cottage by the best approach, +I think.’ + +In her simple garden-hat and her light summer dress, with her rich brown +hair naturally clustering about her, and her wonderful eyes raised to +his for a moment with a look in which regard for him and trustfulness in +him were strikingly blended with a kind of timid sorrow for him, she was +so beautiful that it was well for his peace--or ill for his peace, he +did not quite know which--that he had made that vigorous resolution he +had so often thought about. + +She broke a momentary silence by inquiring if he knew that papa had been +thinking of another tour abroad? He said he had heard it mentioned. She +broke another momentary silence by adding, with some hesitation, that +papa had abandoned the idea. + +At this, he thought directly, ‘they are to be married.’ + +‘Mr Clennam,’ she said, hesitating more timidly yet, and speaking so low +that he bent his head to hear her. ‘I should very much like to give you +my confidence, if you would not mind having the goodness to receive +it. I should have very much liked to have given it to you long ago, +because--I felt that you were becoming so much our friend.’ + +‘How can I be otherwise than proud of it at any time! Pray give it to +me. Pray trust me.’ + +‘I could never have been afraid of trusting you,’ she returned, raising +her eyes frankly to his face. ‘I think I would have done so some time +ago, if I had known how. But I scarcely know how, even now.’ + +‘Mr Gowan,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘has reason to be very happy. God bless +his wife and him!’ + +She wept, as she tried to thank him. He reassured her, took her hand +as it lay with the trembling roses in it on his arm, took the remaining +roses from it, and put it to his lips. At that time, it seemed to him, +he first finally resigned the dying hope that had flickered in nobody’s +heart so much to its pain and trouble; and from that time he became in +his own eyes, as to any similar hope or prospect, a very much older man +who had done with that part of life. + +He put the roses in his breast and they walked on for a little while, +slowly and silently, under the umbrageous trees. Then he asked her, in +a voice of cheerful kindness, was there anything else that she would +say to him as her friend and her father’s friend, many years older than +herself; was there any trust she would repose in him, any service she +would ask of him, any little aid to her happiness that she could give +him the lasting gratification of believing it was in his power to +render? + +She was going to answer, when she was so touched by some little hidden +sorrow or sympathy--what could it have been?--that she said, bursting +into tears again: ‘O Mr Clennam! Good, generous, Mr Clennam, pray tell +me you do not blame me.’ + +‘I blame you?’ said Clennam. ‘My dearest girl! I blame you? No!’ + +After clasping both her hands upon his arm, and looking confidentially +up into his face, with some hurried words to the effect that she thanked +him from her heart (as she did, if it be the source of earnestness), she +gradually composed herself, with now and then a word of encouragement +from him, as they walked on slowly and almost silently under the +darkening trees. + +‘And, now, Minnie Gowan,’ at length said Clennam, smiling; ‘will you ask +me nothing?’ + +‘Oh! I have very much to ask of you.’ + +‘That’s well! I hope so; I am not disappointed.’ + +‘You know how I am loved at home, and how I love home. You can hardly +think it perhaps, dear Mr Clennam,’ she spoke with great agitation, +‘seeing me going from it of my own free will and choice, but I do so +dearly love it!’ + +‘I am sure of that,’ said Clennam. ‘Can you suppose I doubt it?’ + +‘No, no. But it is strange, even to me, that loving it so much and +being so much beloved in it, I can bear to cast it away. It seems so +neglectful of it, so unthankful.’ + +‘My dear girl,’ said Clennam, ‘it is in the natural progress and change +of time. All homes are left so.’ + +‘Yes, I know; but all homes are not left with such a blank in them as +there will be in mine when I am gone. Not that there is any scarcity of +far better and more endearing and more accomplished girls than I am; not +that I am much, but that they have made so much of me!’ + +Pet’s affectionate heart was overcharged, and she sobbed while she +pictured what would happen. + +‘I know what a change papa will feel at first, and I know that at first +I cannot be to him anything like what I have been these many years. +And it is then, Mr Clennam, then more than at any time, that I beg and +entreat you to remember him, and sometimes to keep him company when you +can spare a little while; and to tell him that you know I was fonder +of him when I left him, than I ever was in all my life. For there is +nobody--he told me so himself when he talked to me this very day--there +is nobody he likes so well as you, or trusts so much.’ + +A clue to what had passed between the father and daughter dropped like +a heavy stone into the well of Clennam’s heart, and swelled the water +to his eyes. He said, cheerily, but not quite so cheerily as he tried to +say, that it should be done--that he gave her his faithful promise. + +‘If I do not speak of mama,’ said Pet, more moved by, and more pretty +in, her innocent grief, than Clennam could trust himself even to +consider--for which reason he counted the trees between them and the +fading light as they slowly diminished in number--‘it is because mama +will understand me better in this action, and will feel my loss in a +different way, and will look forward in a different manner. But you know +what a dear, devoted mother she is, and you will remember her too; will +you not?’ + +Let Minnie trust him, Clennam said, let Minnie trust him to do all she +wished. + +‘And, dear Mr Clennam,’ said Minnie, ‘because papa and one whom I need +not name, do not fully appreciate and understand one another yet, as +they will by-and-by; and because it will be the duty, and the pride, +and pleasure of my new life, to draw them to a better knowledge of one +another, and to be a happiness to one another, and to be proud of one +another, and to love one another, both loving me so dearly; oh, as you +are a kind, true man! when I am first separated from home (I am going a +long distance away), try to reconcile papa to him a little more, and use +your great influence to keep him before papa’s mind free from +prejudice and in his real form. Will you do this for me, as you are a +noble-hearted friend?’ + +Poor Pet! Self-deceived, mistaken child! When were such changes +ever made in men’s natural relations to one another: when was such +reconcilement of ingrain differences ever effected! It has been tried +many times by other daughters, Minnie; it has never succeeded; nothing +has ever come of it but failure. + +So Clennam thought. So he did not say; it was too late. He bound himself +to do all she asked, and she knew full well that he would do it. + +They were now at the last tree in the avenue. She stopped, and withdrew +her arm. Speaking to him with her eyes lifted up to his, and with the +hand that had lately rested on his sleeve trembling by touching one of +the roses in his breast as an additional appeal to him, she said: + +‘Dear Mr Clennam, in my happiness--for I am happy, though you have seen +me crying--I cannot bear to leave any cloud between us. If you have +anything to forgive me (not anything that I have wilfully done, but any +trouble I may have caused you without meaning it, or having it in my +power to help it), forgive me to-night out of your noble heart!’ + +He stooped to meet the guileless face that met his without shrinking. He +kissed it, and answered, Heaven knew that he had nothing to forgive. +As he stooped to meet the innocent face once again, she whispered, +‘Good-bye!’ and he repeated it. It was taking leave of all his old +hopes--all nobody’s old restless doubts. They came out of the avenue +next moment, arm-in-arm as they had entered it: and the trees seemed to +close up behind them in the darkness, like their own perspective of the +past. + +The voices of Mr and Mrs Meagles and Doyce were audible directly, +speaking near the garden gate. Hearing Pet’s name among them, Clennam +called out, ‘She is here, with me.’ There was some little wondering and +laughing until they came up; but as soon as they had all come together, +it ceased, and Pet glided away. + +Mr Meagles, Doyce, and Clennam, without speaking, walked up and down +on the brink of the river, in the light of the rising moon, for a few +minutes; and then Doyce lingered behind, and went into the house. Mr +Meagles and Clennam walked up and down together for a few minutes more +without speaking, until at length the former broke silence. + +‘Arthur,’ said he, using that familiar address for the first time in +their communication, ‘do you remember my telling you, as we walked up +and down one hot morning, looking over the harbour at Marseilles, that +Pet’s baby sister who was dead seemed to Mother and me to have grown as +she had grown, and changed as she had changed?’ + +‘Very well.’ + +‘You remember my saying that our thoughts had never been able to +separate those twin sisters, and that, in our fancy, whatever Pet was, +the other was?’ + +‘Yes, very well.’ + +‘Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, much subdued, ‘I carry that fancy further +to-night. I feel to-night, my dear fellow, as if you had loved my dead +child very tenderly, and had lost her when she was like what Pet is +now.’ + +‘Thank you!’ murmured Clennam, ‘thank you!’ And pressed his hand. + +‘Will you come in?’ said Mr Meagles, presently. + +‘In a little while.’ + +Mr Meagles fell away, and he was left alone. When he had walked on the +river’s brink in the peaceful moonlight for some half an hour, he put +his hand in his breast and tenderly took out the handful of roses. +Perhaps he put them to his heart, perhaps he put them to his lips, but +certainly he bent down on the shore and gently launched them on the +flowing river. Pale and unreal in the moonlight, the river floated them +away. + +The lights were bright within doors when he entered, and the faces on +which they shone, his own face not excepted, were soon quietly cheerful. +They talked of many subjects (his partner never had had such a ready +store to draw upon for the beguiling of the time), and so to bed, and to +sleep. While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away +upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our +breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal seas. + + + + +CHAPTER 29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming + + +The house in the city preserved its heavy dulness through all these +transactions, and the invalid within it turned the same unvarying +round of life. Morning, noon, and night, morning, noon, and night, each +recurring with its accompanying monotony, always the same reluctant +return of the same sequences of machinery, like a dragging piece of +clockwork. + +The wheeled chair had its associated remembrances and reveries, one may +suppose, as every place that is made the station of a human being has. +Pictures of demolished streets and altered houses, as they formerly were +when the occupant of the chair was familiar with them, images of people +as they too used to be, with little or no allowance made for the lapse +of time since they were seen; of these, there must have been many in the +long routine of gloomy days. To stop the clock of busy existence at the +hour when we were personally sequestered from it, to suppose mankind +stricken motionless when we were brought to a stand-still, to be unable +to measure the changes beyond our view by any larger standard than +the shrunken one of our own uniform and contracted existence, is the +infirmity of many invalids, and the mental unhealthiness of almost all +recluses. + +What scenes and actors the stern woman most reviewed, as she sat +from season to season in her one dark room, none knew but herself. Mr +Flintwinch, with his wry presence brought to bear upon her daily like +some eccentric mechanical force, would perhaps have screwed it out of +her, if there had been less resistance in her; but she was too strong +for him. So far as Mistress Affery was concerned, to regard her +liege-lord and her disabled mistress with a face of blank wonder, to +go about the house after dark with her apron over her head, always to +listen for the strange noises and sometimes to hear them, and never +to emerge from her ghostly, dreamy, sleep-waking state, was occupation +enough for her. + +There was a fair stroke of business doing, as Mistress Affery made out, +for her husband had abundant occupation in his little office, and saw +more people than had been used to come there for some years. This might +easily be, the house having been long deserted; but he did receive +letters, and comers, and keep books, and correspond. Moreover, he went +about to other counting-houses, and to wharves, and docks, and to the +Custom House, and to Garraway’s Coffee House, and the Jerusalem Coffee +House, and on ‘Change; so that he was much in and out. He began, too, +sometimes of an evening, when Mrs Clennam expressed no particular wish +for his society, to resort to a tavern in the neighbourhood to look at +the shipping news and closing prices in the evening paper, and even to +exchange small socialities with mercantile Sea Captains who frequented +that establishment. At some period of every day, he and Mrs Clennam held +a council on matters of business; and it appeared to Affery, who was +always groping about, listening and watching, that the two clever ones +were making money. + +The state of mind into which Mr Flintwinch’s dazed lady had fallen, had +now begun to be so expressed in all her looks and actions that she was +held in very low account by the two clever ones, as a person, never +of strong intellect, who was becoming foolish. Perhaps because her +appearance was not of a commercial cast, or perhaps because it occurred +to him that his having taken her to wife might expose his judgment to +doubt in the minds of customers, Mr Flintwinch laid his commands upon +her that she should hold her peace on the subject of her conjugal +relations, and should no longer call him Jeremiah out of the domestic +trio. Her frequent forgetfulness of this admonition intensified her +startled manner, since Mr Flintwinch’s habit of avenging himself on her +remissness by making springs after her on the staircase, and shaking +her, occasioned her to be always nervously uncertain when she might be +thus waylaid next. + +Little Dorrit had finished a long day’s work in Mrs Clennam’s room, and +was neatly gathering up her shreds and odds and ends before going home. +Mr Pancks, whom Affery had just shown in, was addressing an inquiry to +Mrs Clennam on the subject of her health, coupled with the remark that, +‘happening to find himself in that direction,’ he had looked in to +inquire, on behalf of his proprietor, how she found herself. Mrs +Clennam, with a deep contraction of her brows, was looking at him. + +‘Mr Casby knows,’ said she, ‘that I am not subject to changes. The +change that I await here is the great change.’ + +‘Indeed, ma’am?’ returned Mr Pancks, with a wandering eye towards the +figure of the little seamstress on her knee picking threads and fraying +of her work from the carpet. ‘You look nicely, ma’am.’ + +‘I bear what I have to bear,’ she answered. ‘Do you what you have to +do.’ + +‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘such is my endeavour.’ + +‘You are often in this direction, are you not?’ asked Mrs Clennam. + +‘Why, yes, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘rather so lately; I have lately been +round this way a good deal, owing to one thing and another.’ + +‘Beg Mr Casby and his daughter not to trouble themselves, by deputy, +about me. When they wish to see me, they know I am here to see them. +They have no need to trouble themselves to send. You have no need to +trouble yourself to come.’ + +‘Not the least trouble, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks. ‘You really are looking +uncommonly nicely, ma’am.’ + +‘Thank you. Good evening.’ + +The dismissal, and its accompanying finger pointed straight at the door, +was so curt and direct that Mr Pancks did not see his way to prolong his +visit. He stirred up his hair with his sprightliest expression, glanced +at the little figure again, said ‘Good evening, ma ‘am; don’t come down, +Mrs Affery, I know the road to the door,’ and steamed out. Mrs Clennam, +her chin resting on her hand, followed him with attentive and darkly +distrustful eyes; and Affery stood looking at her as if she were +spell-bound. + +Slowly and thoughtfully, Mrs Clennam’s eyes turned from the door by +which Pancks had gone out, to Little Dorrit, rising from the carpet. +With her chin drooping more heavily on her hand, and her eyes vigilant +and lowering, the sick woman sat looking at her until she attracted her +attention. Little Dorrit coloured under such a gaze, and looked down. +Mrs Clennam still sat intent. + +‘Little Dorrit,’ she said, when she at last broke silence, ‘what do you +know of that man?’ + +‘I don’t know anything of him, ma’am, except that I have seen him about, +and that he has spoken to me.’ + +‘What has he said to you?’ + +‘I don’t understand what he has said, he is so strange. But nothing +rough or disagreeable.’ + +‘Why does he come here to see you?’ + +‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Little Dorrit, with perfect frankness. + +‘You know that he does come here to see you?’ + +‘I have fancied so,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But why he should come here or +anywhere for that, ma’am, I can’t think.’ + +Mrs Clennam cast her eyes towards the ground, and with her strong, set +face, as intent upon a subject in her mind as it had lately been upon +the form that seemed to pass out of her view, sat absorbed. Some minutes +elapsed before she came out of this thoughtfulness, and resumed her hard +composure. + +Little Dorrit in the meanwhile had been waiting to go, but afraid to +disturb her by moving. She now ventured to leave the spot where she +had been standing since she had risen, and to pass gently round by the +wheeled chair. She stopped at its side to say ‘Good night, ma’am.’ + +Mrs Clennam put out her hand, and laid it on her arm. Little Dorrit, +confused under the touch, stood faltering. Perhaps some momentary +recollection of the story of the Princess may have been in her mind. + +‘Tell me, Little Dorrit,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘have you many friends now?’ + +‘Very few, ma’am. Besides you, only Miss Flora and--one more.’ + +‘Meaning,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her unbent finger again pointing to +the door, ‘that man?’ + +‘Oh no, ma’am!’ + +‘Some friend of his, perhaps?’ + +‘No ma’am.’ Little Dorrit earnestly shook her head. ‘Oh no! No one at +all like him, or belonging to him.’ + +‘Well!’ said Mrs Clennam, almost smiling. ‘It is no affair of mine. I +ask, because I take an interest in you; and because I believe I was your +friend when you had no other who could serve you. Is that so?’ + +‘Yes, ma’am; indeed it is. I have been here many a time when, but for +you and the work you gave me, we should have wanted everything.’ + +‘We,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, looking towards the watch, once her dead +husband’s, which always lay upon her table. ‘Are there many of you?’ + +‘Only father and I, now. I mean, only father and I to keep regularly out +of what we get.’ + +‘Have you undergone many privations? You and your father and who else +there may be of you?’ asked Mrs Clennam, speaking deliberately, and +meditatively turning the watch over and over. + +‘Sometimes it has been rather hard to live,’ said Little Dorrit, in her +soft voice, and timid uncomplaining way; ‘but I think not harder--as to +that--than many people find it.’ + +‘That’s well said!’ Mrs Clennam quickly returned. ‘That’s the truth! +You are a good, thoughtful girl. You are a grateful girl too, or I much +mistake you.’ + +‘It is only natural to be that. There is no merit in being that,’ said +Little Dorrit. ‘I am indeed.’ + +Mrs Clennam, with a gentleness of which the dreaming Affery had never +dreamed her to be capable, drew down the face of her little seamstress, +and kissed her on the forehead. + +‘Now go, Little Dorrit,’ said she, ‘or you will be late, poor child!’ + +In all the dreams Mistress Affery had been piling up since she first +became devoted to the pursuit, she had dreamed nothing more astonishing +than this. Her head ached with the idea that she would find the other +clever one kissing Little Dorrit next, and then the two clever ones +embracing each other and dissolving into tears of tenderness for all +mankind. The idea quite stunned her, as she attended the light footsteps +down the stairs, that the house door might be safely shut. + +On opening it to let Little Dorrit out, she found Mr Pancks, instead +of having gone his way, as in any less wonderful place and among less +wonderful phenomena he might have been reasonably expected to do, +fluttering up and down the court outside the house. The moment he saw +Little Dorrit, he passed her briskly, said with his finger to his nose +(as Mrs Affery distinctly heard), ‘Pancks the gipsy, fortune-telling,’ +and went away. ‘Lord save us, here’s a gipsy and a fortune-teller in it +now!’ cried Mistress Affery. ‘What next!’ + +She stood at the open door, staggering herself with this enigma, on a +rainy, thundery evening. The clouds were flying fast, and the wind was +coming up in gusts, banging some neighbouring shutters that had broken +loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weather-cocks, and rushing +round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to +blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering +in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for +this attempted desecration, and to mutter, ‘Let them rest! Let them +rest!’ + +Mistress Affery, whose fear of thunder and lightning was only to +be equalled by her dread of the haunted house with a premature and +preternatural darkness in it, stood undecided whether to go in or not, +until the question was settled for her by the door blowing upon her in +a violent gust of wind and shutting her out. ‘What’s to be done now, +what’s to be done now!’ cried Mistress Affery, wringing her hands in +this last uneasy dream of all; ‘when she’s all alone by herself +inside, and can no more come down to open it than the churchyard dead +themselves!’ + +In this dilemma, Mistress Affery, with her apron as a hood to keep the +rain off, ran crying up and down the solitary paved enclosure several +times. Why she should then stoop down and look in at the keyhole of the +door as if an eye would open it, it would be difficult to say; but it +is none the less what most people would have done in the same situation, +and it is what she did. + +From this posture she started up suddenly, with a half scream, feeling +something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand; of a man’s hand. + +The man was dressed like a traveller, in a foraging cap with fur about +it, and a heap of cloak. He looked like a foreigner. He had a quantity +of hair and moustache--jet black, except at the shaggy ends, where +it had a tinge of red--and a high hook nose. He laughed at Mistress +Affery’s start and cry; and as he laughed, his moustache went up under +his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache. + +‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in plain English. ‘What are you frightened +at?’ + +‘At you,’ panted Affery. + +‘Me, madam?’ + +‘And the dismal evening, and--and everything,’ said Affery. ‘And here! +The wind has been and blown the door to, and I can’t get in.’ + +‘Hah!’ said the gentleman, who took that very coolly. ‘Indeed! Do you +know such a name as Clennam about here?’ + +‘Lord bless us, I should think I did, I should think I did!’ cried +Affery, exasperated into a new wringing of hands by the inquiry. + +‘Where about here?’ + +‘Where!’ cried Affery, goaded into another inspection of the keyhole. +‘Where but here in this house? And she’s all alone in her room, and lost +the use of her limbs and can’t stir to help herself or me, and t’other +clever one’s out, and Lord forgive me!’ cried Affery, driven into a +frantic dance by these accumulated considerations, ‘if I ain’t a-going +headlong out of my mind!’ + +Taking a warmer view of the matter now that it concerned himself, the +gentleman stepped back to glance at the house, and his eye soon rested +on the long narrow window of the little room near the hall-door. + +‘Where may the lady be who has lost the use of her limbs, madam?’ he +inquired, with that peculiar smile which Mistress Affery could not +choose but keep her eyes upon. + +‘Up there!’ said Affery. ‘Them two windows.’ + +‘Hah! I am of a fair size, but could not have the honour of presenting +myself in that room without a ladder. Now, madam, frankly--frankness is +a part of my character--shall I open the door for you?’ + +‘Yes, bless you, sir, for a dear creetur, and do it at once,’ cried +Affery, ‘for she may be a-calling to me at this very present minute, or +may be setting herself a fire and burning herself to death, or there’s +no knowing what may be happening to her, and me a-going out of my mind +at thinking of it!’ + +‘Stay, my good madam!’ He restrained her impatience with a smooth white +hand. ‘Business-hours, I apprehend, are over for the day?’ + +‘Yes, yes, yes,’ cried Affery. ‘Long ago.’ + +‘Let me make, then, a fair proposal. Fairness is a part of my character. +I am just landed from the packet-boat, as you may see.’ He showed her +that his cloak was very wet, and that his boots were saturated with +water; she had previously observed that he was dishevelled and sallow, +as if from a rough voyage, and so chilled that he could not keep his +teeth from chattering. ‘I am just landed from the packet-boat, madam, +and have been delayed by the weather: the infernal weather! In +consequence of this, madam, some necessary business that I should +otherwise have transacted here within the regular hours (necessary +business because money-business), still remains to be done. Now, if you +will fetch any authorised neighbouring somebody to do it in return for +my opening the door, I’ll open the door. If this arrangement should be +objectionable, I’ll--’ and with the same smile he made a significant +feint of backing away. + +Mistress Affery, heartily glad to effect the proposed compromise, gave +in her willing adhesion to it. The gentleman at once requested her to +do him the favour of holding his cloak, took a short run at the narrow +window, made a leap at the sill, clung his way up the bricks, and in +a moment had his hand at the sash, raising it. His eyes looked so very +sinister, as he put his leg into the room and glanced round at Mistress +Affery, that she thought with a sudden coldness, if he were to go +straight up-stairs to murder the invalid, what could she do to prevent +him? + +Happily he had no such purpose; for he reappeared, in a moment, at the +house door. ‘Now, my dear madam,’ he said, as he took back his cloak and +threw it on, ‘if you have the goodness to--what the Devil’s that!’ + +The strangest of sounds. Evidently close at hand from the peculiar +shock it communicated to the air, yet subdued as if it were far off. A +tremble, a rumble, and a fall of some light dry matter. + +‘What the Devil is it?’ + +‘I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard the like of it over and over +again,’ said Affery, who had caught his arm. + +He could hardly be a very brave man, even she thought in her dreamy +start and fright, for his trembling lips had turned colourless. After +listening a few moments, he made light of it. + +‘Bah! Nothing! Now, my dear madam, I think you spoke of some clever +personage. Will you be so good as to confront me with that genius?’ He +held the door in his hand, as though he were quite ready to shut her out +again if she failed. + +‘Don’t you say anything about the door and me, then,’ whispered Affery. + +‘Not a word.’ + +‘And don’t you stir from here, or speak if she calls, while I run round +the corner.’ + +‘Madam, I am a statue.’ + +Affery had so vivid a fear of his going stealthily up-stairs the moment +her back was turned, that after hurrying out of sight, she returned to +the gateway to peep at him. Seeing him still on the threshold, more out +of the house than in it, as if he had no love for darkness and no +desire to probe its mysteries, she flew into the next street, and sent a +message into the tavern to Mr Flintwinch, who came out directly. The +two returning together--the lady in advance, and Mr Flintwinch coming up +briskly behind, animated with the hope of shaking her before she could +get housed--saw the gentleman standing in the same place in the dark, +and heard the strong voice of Mrs Clennam calling from her room, ‘Who is +it? What is it? Why does no one answer? Who _is_ that, down there?’ + + + + +CHAPTER 30. The Word of a Gentleman + + +When Mr and Mrs Flintwinch panted up to the door of the old house in the +twilight, Jeremiah within a second of Affery, the stranger started back. +‘Death of my soul!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, how did you get here?’ + +Mr Flintwinch, to whom these words were spoken, repaid the stranger’s +wonder in full. He gazed at him with blank astonishment; he looked over +his own shoulder, as expecting to see some one he had not been aware of +standing behind him; he gazed at the stranger again, speechlessly, at +a loss to know what he meant; he looked to his wife for explanation; +receiving none, he pounced upon her, and shook her with such heartiness +that he shook her cap off her head, saying between his teeth, with grim +raillery, as he did it, ‘Affery, my woman, you must have a dose, my +woman! This is some of your tricks! You have been dreaming again, +mistress. What’s it about? Who is it? What does it mean! Speak out or be +choked! It’s the only choice I’ll give you.’ + +Supposing Mistress Affery to have any power of election at the moment, +her choice was decidedly to be choked; for she answered not a syllable +to this adjuration, but, with her bare head wagging violently backwards +and forwards, resigned herself to her punishment. The stranger, however, +picking up her cap with an air of gallantry, interposed. + +‘Permit me,’ said he, laying his hand on the shoulder of Jeremiah, who +stopped and released his victim. ‘Thank you. Excuse me. Husband and +wife I know, from this playfulness. Haha! Always agreeable to see that +relation playfully maintained. Listen! May I suggest that somebody +up-stairs, in the dark, is becoming energetically curious to know what +is going on here?’ + +This reference to Mrs Clennam’s voice reminded Mr Flintwinch to step +into the hall and call up the staircase. ‘It’s all right, I am here, +Affery is coming with your light.’ Then he said to the latter +flustered woman, who was putting her cap on, ‘Get out with you, and get +up-stairs!’ and then turned to the stranger and said to him, ‘Now, sir, +what might you please to want?’ + +‘I am afraid,’ said the stranger, ‘I must be so troublesome as to +propose a candle.’ + +‘True,’ assented Jeremiah. ‘I was going to do so. Please to stand where +you are while I get one.’ + +The visitor was standing in the doorway, but turned a little into the +gloom of the house as Mr Flintwinch turned, and pursued him with his +eyes into the little room, where he groped about for a phosphorus box. +When he found it, it was damp, or otherwise out of order; and match +after match that he struck into it lighted sufficiently to throw a dull +glare about his groping face, and to sprinkle his hands with pale little +spots of fire, but not sufficiently to light the candle. The stranger, +taking advantage of this fitful illumination of his visage, looked +intently and wonderingly at him. Jeremiah, when he at last lighted +the candle, knew he had been doing this, by seeing the last shade of +a lowering watchfulness clear away from his face, as it broke into the +doubtful smile that was a large ingredient in its expression. + +‘Be so good,’ said Jeremiah, closing the house door, and taking a pretty +sharp survey of the smiling visitor in his turn, ‘as to step into my +counting-house.--It’s all right, I tell you!’ petulantly breaking off to +answer the voice up-stairs, still unsatisfied, though Affery was there, +speaking in persuasive tones. ‘Don’t I tell you it’s all right? Preserve +the woman, has she no reason at all in her!’ + +‘Timorous,’ remarked the stranger. + +‘Timorous?’ said Mr Flintwinch, turning his head to retort, as he went +before with the candle. ‘More courageous than ninety men in a hundred, +sir, let me tell you.’ + +‘Though an invalid?’ + +‘Many years an invalid. Mrs Clennam. The only one of that name left +in the House now. My partner.’ + +Saying something apologetically as he crossed the hall, to the effect +that at that time of night they were not in the habit of receiving any +one, and were always shut up, Mr Flintwinch led the way into his own +office, which presented a sufficiently business-like appearance. Here he +put the light on his desk, and said to the stranger, with his wryest +twist upon him, ‘Your commands.’ + +‘My name is Blandois.’ + +‘Blandois. I don’t know it,’ said Jeremiah. + +‘I thought it possible,’ resumed the other, ‘that you might have been +advised from Paris--’ + +‘We have had no advice from Paris respecting anybody of the name of +Blandois,’ said Jeremiah. + +‘No?’ + +‘No.’ + +Jeremiah stood in his favourite attitude. The smiling Mr Blandois, +opening his cloak to get his hand to a breast-pocket, paused to say, +with a laugh in his glittering eyes, which it occurred to Mr Flintwinch +were too near together: + +‘You are so like a friend of mine! Not so identically the same as I +supposed when I really did for the moment take you to be the same in the +dusk--for which I ought to apologise; permit me to do so; a readiness +to confess my errors is, I hope, a part of the frankness of my +character--still, however, uncommonly like.’ + +‘Indeed?’ said Jeremiah, perversely. ‘But I have not received any letter +of advice from anywhere respecting anybody of the name of Blandois.’ + +‘Just so,’ said the stranger. + +‘_Just_ so,’ said Jeremiah. + +Mr Blandois, not at all put out by this omission on the part of the +correspondents of the house of Clennam and Co., took his pocket-book +from his breast-pocket, selected a letter from that receptacle, and +handed it to Mr Flintwinch. ‘No doubt you are well acquainted with the +writing. Perhaps the letter speaks for itself, and requires no advice. +You are a far more competent judge of such affairs than I am. It is my +misfortune to be, not so much a man of business, as what the world calls +(arbitrarily) a gentleman.’ + +Mr Flintwinch took the letter, and read, under date of Paris, ‘We have +to present to you, on behalf of a highly esteemed correspondent of our +Firm, M. Blandois, of this city,’ &c. &c. ‘Such facilities as he may +require and such attentions as may lie in your power,’ &c. &c. ‘Also +have to add that if you will honour M. Blandois’ drafts at sight to the +extent of, say Fifty Pounds sterling (50_l_.),’ &c. &c. + +‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Take a chair. To the extent of +anything that our House can do--we are in a retired, old-fashioned, +steady way of business, sir--we shall be happy to render you our best +assistance. I observe, from the date of this, that we could not yet be +advised of it. Probably you came over with the delayed mail that brings +the advice.’ + +‘That I came over with the delayed mail, sir,’ returned Mr Blandois, +passing his white hand down his high-hooked nose, ‘I know to the cost +of my head and stomach: the detestable and intolerable weather having +racked them both. You see me in the plight in which I came out of the +packet within this half-hour. I ought to have been here hours ago, +and then I should not have to apologise--permit me to apologise--for +presenting myself so unreasonably, and frightening--no, by-the-bye, you +said not frightening; permit me to apologise again--the esteemed lady, +Mrs Clennam, in her invalid chamber above stairs.’ + +Swagger and an air of authorised condescension do so much, that +Mr Flintwinch had already begun to think this a highly gentlemanly +personage. Not the less unyielding with him on that account, he scraped +his chin and said, what could he have the honour of doing for Mr +Blandois to-night, out of business hours? + +‘Faith!’ returned that gentleman, shrugging his cloaked shoulders, +‘I must change, and eat and drink, and be lodged somewhere. Have the +kindness to advise me, a total stranger, where, and money is a matter of +perfect indifference until to-morrow. The nearer the place, the better. +Next door, if that’s all.’ + +Mr Flintwinch was slowly beginning, ‘For a gentleman of your habits, +there is not in this immediate neighbourhood any hotel--’ when Mr +Blandois took him up. + +‘So much for my habits! my dear sir,’ snapping his fingers. ‘A citizen +of the world has no habits. That I am, in my poor way, a gentleman, +by Heaven! I will not deny, but I have no unaccommodating prejudiced +habits. A clean room, a hot dish for dinner, and a bottle of not +absolutely poisonous wine, are all I want tonight. But I want that much +without the trouble of going one unnecessary inch to get it.’ + +‘There is,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with more than his usual deliberation, +as he met, for a moment, Mr Blandois’ shining eyes, which were restless; +‘there is a coffee-house and tavern close here, which, so far, I can +recommend; but there’s no style about it.’ + +‘I dispense with style!’ said Mr Blandois, waving his hand. ‘Do me the +honour to show me the house, and introduce me there (if I am not too +troublesome), and I shall be infinitely obliged.’ + +Mr Flintwinch, upon this, looked up his hat, and lighted Mr Blandois +across the hall again. As he put the candle on a bracket, where the +dark old panelling almost served as an extinguisher for it, he bethought +himself of going up to tell the invalid that he would not be absent five +minutes. + +‘Oblige me,’ said the visitor, on his saying so, ‘by presenting my card +of visit. Do me the favour to add that I shall be happy to wait on Mrs +Clennam, to offer my personal compliments, and to apologise for having +occasioned any agitation in this tranquil corner, if it should suit her +convenience to endure the presence of a stranger for a few minutes, +after he shall have changed his wet clothes and fortified himself with +something to eat and drink.’ + +Jeremiah made all despatch, and said, on his return, ‘She’ll be glad +to see you, sir; but, being conscious that her sick room has no +attractions, wishes me to say that she won’t hold you to your offer, in +case you should think better of it.’ + +‘To think better of it,’ returned the gallant Blandois, ‘would be to +slight a lady; to slight a lady would be to be deficient in chivalry +towards the sex; and chivalry towards the sex is a part of my +character!’ Thus expressing himself, he threw the draggled skirt of his +cloak over his shoulder, and accompanied Mr Flintwinch to the tavern; +taking up on the road a porter who was waiting with his portmanteau on +the outer side of the gateway. + +The house was kept in a homely manner, and the condescension of Mr +Blandois was infinite. It seemed to fill to inconvenience the little bar +in which the widow landlady and her two daughters received him; it was +much too big for the narrow wainscoted room with a bagatelle-board in +it, that was first proposed for his reception; it perfectly swamped the +little private holiday sitting-room of the family, which was finally +given up to him. Here, in dry clothes and scented linen, with sleeked +hair, a great ring on each forefinger and a massive show of watch-chain, +Mr Blandois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a window-seat with his +knees drawn up, looked (for all the difference in the setting of the +jewel) fearfully and wonderfully like a certain Monsieur Rigaud who had +once so waited for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of the iron +grating of a cell in a villainous dungeon at Marseilles. + +His greed at dinner, too, was closely in keeping with the greed of +Monsieur Rigaud at breakfast. His avaricious manner of collecting all +the eatables about him, and devouring some with his eyes while devouring +others with his jaws, was the same manner. His utter disregard of +other people, as shown in his way of tossing the little womanly toys +of furniture about, flinging favourite cushions under his boots for a +softer rest, and crushing delicate coverings with his big body and his +great black head, had the same brute selfishness at the bottom of it. +The softly moving hands that were so busy among the dishes had the old +wicked facility of the hands that had clung to the bars. And when he +could eat no more, and sat sucking his delicate fingers one by one and +wiping them on a cloth, there wanted nothing but the substitution of +vine-leaves to finish the picture. + +On this man, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down in +that most evil of smiles, and with his surface eyes looking as if they +belonged to his dyed hair, and had had their natural power of reflecting +light stopped by some similar process, Nature, always true, and never +working in vain, had set the mark, Beware! It was not her fault, if the +warning were fruitless. She is never to blame in any such instance. + +Mr Blandois, having finished his repast and cleaned his fingers, took +a cigar from his pocket, and, lying on the window-seat again, smoked it +out at his leisure, occasionally apostrophising the smoke as it parted +from his thin lips in a thin stream: + +‘Blandois, you shall turn the tables on society, my little child. Haha! +Holy blue, you have begun well, Blandois! At a pinch, an excellent +master in English or French; a man for the bosom of families! You have +a quick perception, you have humour, you have ease, you have insinuating +manners, you have a good appearance; in effect, you are a gentleman! A +gentleman you shall live, my small boy, and a gentleman you shall die. +You shall win, however the game goes. They shall all confess your merit, +Blandois. You shall subdue the society which has grievously wronged +you, to your own high spirit. Death of my soul! You are high spirited by +right and by nature, my Blandois!’ + +To such soothing murmurs did this gentleman smoke out his cigar and +drink out his bottle of wine. Both being finished, he shook himself into +a sitting attitude; and with the concluding serious apostrophe, ‘Hold, +then! Blandois, you ingenious one, have all your wits about you!’ arose +and went back to the house of Clennam and Co. + +He was received at the door by Mistress Affery, who, under instructions +from her lord, had lighted up two candles in the hall and a third on the +staircase, and who conducted him to Mrs Clennam’s room. Tea was prepared +there, and such little company arrangements had been made as usually +attended the reception of expected visitors. They were slight on the +greatest occasion, never extending beyond the production of the China +tea-service, and the covering of the bed with a sober and sad drapery. +For the rest, there was the bier-like sofa with the block upon it, and +the figure in the widow’s dress, as if attired for execution; the fire +topped by the mound of damped ashes; the grate with its second little +mound of ashes; the kettle and the smell of black dye; all as they had +been for fifteen years. + +Mr Flintwinch presented the gentleman commended to the consideration of +Clennam and Co. Mrs Clennam, who had the letter lying before her, bent +her head and requested him to sit. They looked very closely at one +another. That was but natural curiosity. + +‘I thank you, sir, for thinking of a disabled woman like me. Few who +come here on business have any remembrance to bestow on one so removed +from observation. It would be idle to expect that they should have. Out +of sight, out of mind. While I am grateful for the exception, I don’t +complain of the rule.’ + +Mr Blandois, in his most gentlemanly manner, was afraid he had disturbed +her by unhappily presenting himself at such an unconscionable time. For +which he had already offered his best apologies to Mr--he begged +pardon--but by name had not the distinguished honour-- + +‘Mr Flintwinch has been connected with the House many years.’ + +Mr Blandois was Mr Flintwinch’s most obedient humble servant. He +entreated Mr Flintwinch to receive the assurance of his profoundest +consideration. + +‘My husband being dead,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and my son preferring +another pursuit, our old House has no other representative in these days +than Mr Flintwinch.’ + +‘What do you call yourself?’ was the surly demand of that gentleman. +‘You have the head of two men.’ + +‘My sex disqualifies me,’ she proceeded with merely a slight turn of +her eyes in Jeremiah’s direction, ‘from taking a responsible part in +the business, even if I had the ability; and therefore Mr Flintwinch +combines my interest with his own, and conducts it. It is not what it +used to be; but some of our old friends (principally the writers of this +letter) have the kindness not to forget us, and we retain the power +of doing what they entrust to us as efficiently as we ever did. This +however is not interesting to you. You are English, sir?’ + +‘Faith, madam, no; I am neither born nor bred in England. In effect, I +am of no country,’ said Mr Blandois, stretching out his leg and smiting +it: ‘I descend from half-a-dozen countries.’ + +‘You have been much about the world?’ + +‘It is true. By Heaven, madam, I have been here and there and +everywhere!’ + +‘You have no ties, probably. Are not married?’ + +‘Madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with an ugly fall of his eyebrows, ‘I adore +your sex, but I am not married--never was.’ + +Mistress Affery, who stood at the table near him, pouring out the tea, +happened in her dreamy state to look at him as he said these words, and +to fancy that she caught an expression in his eyes which attracted her +own eyes so that she could not get them away. The effect of this fancy +was to keep her staring at him with the tea-pot in her hand, not only to +her own great uneasiness, but manifestly to his, too; and, through them +both, to Mrs Clennam’s and Mr Flintwinch’s. Thus a few ghostly moments +supervened, when they were all confusedly staring without knowing why. + +‘Affery,’ her mistress was the first to say, ‘what is the matter with +you?’ + +‘I don’t know,’ said Mistress Affery, with her disengaged left hand +extended towards the visitor. ‘It ain’t me. It’s him!’ + +‘What does this good woman mean?’ cried Mr Blandois, turning white, hot, +and slowly rising with a look of such deadly wrath that it contrasted +surprisingly with the slight force of his words. ‘How is it possible to +understand this good creature?’ + +‘It’s _not_ possible,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself rapidly +in that direction. ‘She don’t know what she means. She’s an idiot, a +wanderer in her mind. She shall have a dose, she shall have such a dose! +Get along with you, my woman,’ he added in her ear, ‘get along with you, +while you know you’re Affery, and before you’re shaken to yeast.’ + +Mistress Affery, sensible of the danger in which her identity stood, +relinquished the tea-pot as her husband seized it, put her apron over +her head, and in a twinkling vanished. The visitor gradually broke into +a smile, and sat down again. + +‘You’ll excuse her, Mr Blandois,’ said Jeremiah, pouring out the tea +himself, ‘she’s failing and breaking up; that’s what she’s about. Do you +take sugar, sir?’ + +‘Thank you, no tea for me.--Pardon my observing it, but that’s a very +remarkable watch!’ + +The tea-table was drawn up near the sofa, with a small interval between +it and Mrs Clennam’s own particular table. Mr Blandois in his gallantry +had risen to hand that lady her tea (her dish of toast was already +there), and it was in placing the cup conveniently within her reach that +the watch, lying before her as it always did, attracted his attention. +Mrs Clennam looked suddenly up at him. + +‘May I be permitted? Thank you. A fine old-fashioned watch,’ he said, +taking it in his hand. ‘Heavy for use, but massive and genuine. I have +a partiality for everything genuine. Such as I am, I am genuine myself. +Hah! A gentleman’s watch with two cases in the old fashion. May I remove +it from the outer case? Thank you. Aye? An old silk watch-lining, worked +with beads! I have often seen these among old Dutch people and Belgians. +Quaint things!’ + +‘They are old-fashioned, too,’ said Mrs Clennam. + +‘Very. But this is not so old as the watch, I think?’ + +‘I think not.’ + +‘Extraordinary how they used to complicate these cyphers!’ remarked Mr +Blandois, glancing up with his own smile again. ‘Now is this D. N. F.? +It might be almost anything.’ + +‘Those are the letters.’ + +Mr Flintwinch, who had been observantly pausing all this time with a cup +of tea in his hand, and his mouth open ready to swallow the contents, +began to do so: always entirely filling his mouth before he emptied it +at a gulp; and always deliberating again before he refilled it. + +‘D. N. F. was some tender, lovely, fascinating fair-creature, I make no +doubt,’ observed Mr Blandois, as he snapped on the case again. ‘I adore +her memory on the assumption. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, +I adore but too readily. It may be a vice, it may be a virtue, but +adoration of female beauty and merit constitutes three parts of my +character, madam.’ + +Mr Flintwinch had by this time poured himself out another cup of tea, +which he was swallowing in gulps as before, with his eyes directed to +the invalid. + +‘You may be heart-free here, sir,’ she returned to Mr Blandois. ‘Those +letters are not intended, I believe, for the initials of any name.’ + +‘Of a motto, perhaps,’ said Mr Blandois, casually. + +‘Of a sentence. They have always stood, I believe, for Do Not Forget!’ + +‘And naturally,’ said Mr Blandois, replacing the watch and stepping +backward to his former chair, ‘you do _not_ forget.’ + +Mr Flintwinch, finishing his tea, not only took a longer gulp than he +had taken yet, but made his succeeding pause under new circumstances: +that is to say, with his head thrown back and his cup held still at his +lips, while his eyes were still directed at the invalid. She had that +force of face, and that concentrated air of collecting her firmness or +obstinacy, which represented in her case what would have been gesture +and action in another, as she replied with her deliberate strength of +speech: + +‘No, sir, I do not forget. To lead a life as monotonous as mine has been +during many years, is not the way to forget. To lead a life of +self-correction is not the way to forget. To be sensible of having (as +we all have, every one of us, all the children of Adam!) offences +to expiate and peace to make, does not justify the desire to forget. +Therefore I have long dismissed it, and I neither forget nor wish to +forget.’ + +Mr Flintwinch, who had latterly been shaking the sediment at the bottom +of his tea-cup, round and round, here gulped it down, and putting the +cup in the tea-tray, as done with, turned his eyes upon Mr Blandois as +if to ask him what he thought of that? + +‘All expressed, madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with his smoothest bow and his +white hand on his breast, ‘by the word “naturally,” which I am proud +to have had sufficient apprehension and appreciation (but without +appreciation I could not be Blandois) to employ.’ + +‘Pardon me, sir,’ she returned, ‘if I doubt the likelihood of a +gentleman of pleasure, and change, and politeness, accustomed to court +and to be courted--’ + +‘Oh madam! By Heaven!’ + +‘--If I doubt the likelihood of such a character quite comprehending +what belongs to mine in my circumstances. Not to obtrude doctrine upon +you,’ she looked at the rigid pile of hard pale books before her, ‘(for +you go your own way, and the consequences are on your own head), I will +say this much: that I shape my course by pilots, strictly by proved and +tried pilots, under whom I cannot be shipwrecked--can not be--and that +if I were unmindful of the admonition conveyed in those three letters, I +should not be half as chastened as I am.’ + +It was curious how she seized the occasion to argue with some invisible +opponent. Perhaps with her own better sense, always turning upon herself +and her own deception. + +‘If I forgot my ignorances in my life of health and freedom, I might +complain of the life to which I am now condemned. I never do; I never +have done. If I forgot that this scene, the Earth, is expressly meant to +be a scene of gloom, and hardship, and dark trial, for the creatures who +are made out of its dust, I might have some tenderness for its vanities. +But I have no such tenderness. If I did not know that we are, every one, +the subject (most justly the subject) of a wrath that must be satisfied, +and against which mere actions are nothing, I might repine at the +difference between me, imprisoned here, and the people who pass that +gateway yonder. But I take it as a grace and favour to be elected to +make the satisfaction I am making here, to know what I know for certain +here, and to work out what I have worked out here. My affliction might +otherwise have had no meaning to me. Hence I would forget, and I do +forget, nothing. Hence I am contented, and say it is better with me +than with millions.’ + +As she spoke these words, she put her hand upon the watch, and restored +it to the precise spot on her little table which it always occupied. +With her touch lingering upon it, she sat for some moments afterwards, +looking at it steadily and half-defiantly. + +Mr Blandois, during this exposition, had been strictly attentive, +keeping his eyes fastened on the lady, and thoughtfully stroking his +moustache with his two hands. Mr Flintwinch had been a little fidgety, +and now struck in. + +‘There, there, there!’ said he. ‘That is quite understood, Mrs Clennam, +and you have spoken piously and well. Mr Blandois, I suspect, is not +of a pious cast.’ + +‘On the contrary, sir!’ that gentleman protested, snapping his fingers. +‘Your pardon! It’s a part of my character. I am sensitive, ardent, +conscientious, and imaginative. A sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and +imaginative man, Mr Flintwinch, must be that, or nothing!’ + +There was an inkling of suspicion in Mr Flintwinch’s face that he might +be nothing, as he swaggered out of his chair (it was characteristic of +this man, as it is of all men similarly marked, that whatever he did, +he overdid, though it were sometimes by only a hairsbreadth), and +approached to take his leave of Mrs Clennam. + +‘With what will appear to you the egotism of a sick old woman, sir,’ she +then said, ‘though really through your accidental allusion, I have +been led away into the subject of myself and my infirmities. Being so +considerate as to visit me, I hope you will be likewise so considerate +as to overlook that. Don’t compliment me, if you please.’ For he was +evidently going to do it. ‘Mr Flintwinch will be happy to render you any +service, and I hope your stay in this city may prove agreeable.’ + +Mr Blandois thanked her, and kissed his hand several times. ‘This is an +old room,’ he remarked, with a sudden sprightliness of manner, looking +round when he got near the door, ‘I have been so interested that I have +not observed it. But it’s a genuine old room.’ + +‘It is a genuine old house,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her frozen smile. ‘A +place of no pretensions, but a piece of antiquity.’ + +‘Faith!’ cried the visitor. ‘If Mr Flintwinch would do me the favour to +take me through the rooms on my way out, he could hardly oblige me more. +An old house is a weakness with me. I have many weaknesses, but none +greater. I love and study the picturesque in all its varieties. I have +been called picturesque myself. It is no merit to be picturesque--I +have greater merits, perhaps--but I may be, by an accident. Sympathy, +sympathy!’ + +‘I tell you beforehand, Mr Blandois, that you’ll find it very dingy and +very bare,’ said Jeremiah, taking up the candle. ‘It’s not worth your +looking at.’But Mr Blandois, smiting him in a friendly manner on the +back, only laughed; so the said Blandois kissed his hand again to Mrs +Clennam, and they went out of the room together. + +‘You don’t care to go up-stairs?’ said Jeremiah, on the landing. + +‘On the contrary, Mr Flintwinch; if not tiresome to you, I shall be +ravished!’ + +Mr Flintwinch, therefore, wormed himself up the staircase, and Mr +Blandois followed close. They ascended to the great garret bed-room +which Arthur had occupied on the night of his return. ‘There, Mr +Blandois!’ said Jeremiah, showing it, ‘I hope you may think that worth +coming so high to see. I confess I don’t.’ + +Mr Blandois being enraptured, they walked through other garrets and +passages, and came down the staircase again. By this time Mr Flintwinch +had remarked that he never found the visitor looking at any room, after +throwing one quick glance around, but always found the visitor looking +at him, Mr Flintwinch. With this discovery in his thoughts, he turned +about on the staircase for another experiment. He met his eyes directly; +and on the instant of their fixing one another, the visitor, with +that ugly play of nose and moustache, laughed (as he had done at every +similar moment since they left Mrs Clennam’s chamber) a diabolically +silent laugh. + +As a much shorter man than the visitor, Mr Flintwinch was at the +physical disadvantage of being thus disagreeably leered at from a +height; and as he went first down the staircase, and was usually a +step or two lower than the other, this disadvantage was at the time +increased. He postponed looking at Mr Blandois again until this +accidental inequality was removed by their having entered the late Mr +Clennam’s room. But, then twisting himself suddenly round upon him, he +found his look unchanged. + +‘A most admirable old house,’ smiled Mr Blandois. ‘So mysterious. Do you +never hear any haunted noises here?’ + +‘Noises,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘No.’ + +‘Nor see any devils?’ + +‘Not,’ said Mr Flintwinch, grimly screwing himself at his questioner, +‘not any that introduce themselves under that name and in that +capacity.’ + +‘Haha! A portrait here, I see.’ + +(Still looking at Mr Flintwinch, as if he were the portrait.) + +‘It’s a portrait, sir, as you observe.’ + +‘May I ask the subject, Mr Flintwinch?’ + +‘Mr Clennam, deceased. Her husband.’ + +‘Former owner of the remarkable watch, perhaps?’ said the visitor. + +Mr Flintwinch, who had cast his eyes towards the portrait, twisted +himself about again, and again found himself the subject of the same +look and smile. ‘Yes, Mr Blandois,’ he replied tartly. ‘It was his, and +his uncle’s before him, and Lord knows who before him; and that’s all I +can tell you of its pedigree.’ + +‘That’s a strongly marked character, Mr Flintwinch, our friend +up-stairs.’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeremiah, twisting himself at the visitor again, as he +did during the whole of this dialogue, like some screw-machine that +fell short of its grip; for the other never changed, and he always +felt obliged to retreat a little. ‘She is a remarkable woman. Great +fortitude--great strength of mind.’ + +‘They must have been very happy,’ said Blandois. + +‘Who?’ demanded Mr Flintwinch, with another screw at him. + +Mr Blandois shook his right forefinger towards the sick room, and his +left forefinger towards the portrait, and then, putting his arms akimbo +and striding his legs wide apart, stood smiling down at Mr Flintwinch +with the advancing nose and the retreating moustache. + +‘As happy as most other married people, I suppose,’ returned Mr +Flintwinch. ‘I can’t say. I don’t know. There are secrets in all +families.’ + +‘Secrets!’ cried Mr Blandois, quickly. ‘Say it again, my son.’ + +‘I say,’ replied Mr Flintwinch, upon whom he had swelled himself so +suddenly that Mr Flintwinch found his face almost brushed by the dilated +chest. ‘I say there are secrets in all families.’ + +‘So there are,’ cried the other, clapping him on both shoulders, and +rolling him backwards and forwards. ‘Haha! you are right. So there are! +Secrets! Holy Blue! There are the devil’s own secrets in some families, +Mr Flintwinch!’ With that, after clapping Mr Flintwinch on both +shoulders several times, as if in a friendly and humorous way he were +rallying him on a joke he had made, he threw up his arms, threw back +his head, hooked his hands together behind it, and burst into a roar of +laughter. It was in vain for Mr Flintwinch to try another screw at him. +He had his laugh out. + +‘But, favour me with the candle a moment,’ he said, when he had done. +‘Let us have a look at the husband of the remarkable lady. Hah!’ holding +up the light at arm’s length. ‘A decided expression of face here too, +though not of the same character. Looks as if he were saying, what is +it--Do Not Forget--does he not, Mr Flintwinch? By Heaven, sir, he does!’ + +As he returned the candle, he looked at him once more; and then, +leisurely strolling out with him into the hall, declared it to be a +charming old house indeed, and one which had so greatly pleased him that +he would not have missed inspecting it for a hundred pounds. + +Throughout these singular freedoms on the part of Mr Blandois, which +involved a general alteration in his demeanour, making it much coarser +and rougher, much more violent and audacious than before, Mr Flintwinch, +whose leathern face was not liable to many changes, preserved its +immobility intact. Beyond now appearing perhaps, to have been left +hanging a trifle too long before that friendly operation of cutting +down, he outwardly maintained an equable composure. They had brought +their survey to a close in the little room at the side of the hall, and +he stood there, eyeing Mr Blandois. + +‘I am glad you are so well satisfied, sir,’ was his calm remark. ‘I +didn’t expect it. You seem to be quite in good spirits.’ + +‘In admirable spirits,’ returned Blandois. ‘Word of honour! never more +refreshed in spirits. Do you ever have presentiments, Mr Flintwinch?’ + +‘I am not sure that I know what you mean by the term, sir,’ replied that +gentleman. + +‘Say, in this case, Mr Flintwinch, undefined anticipations of pleasure +to come.’ + +‘I can’t say I’m sensible of such a sensation at present,’ returned Mr +Flintwinch with the utmost gravity. ‘If I should find it coming on, I’ll +mention it.’ + +‘Now I,’ said Blandois, ‘I, my son, have a presentiment to-night that we +shall be well acquainted. Do you find it coming on?’ + +‘N-no,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, deliberately inquiring of himself. ‘I +can’t say I do.’ + +‘I have a strong presentiment that we shall become intimately +acquainted.--You have no feeling of that sort yet?’ + +‘Not yet,’ said Mr Flintwinch. + +Mr Blandois, taking him by both shoulders again, rolled him about a +little in his former merry way, then drew his arm through his own, and +invited him to come off and drink a bottle of wine like a dear deep old +dog as he was. + +Without a moment’s indecision, Mr Flintwinch accepted the invitation, +and they went out to the quarters where the traveller was lodged, +through a heavy rain which had rattled on the windows, roofs, and +pavements, ever since nightfall. The thunder and lightning had long ago +passed over, but the rain was furious. On their arrival at Mr Blandois’ +room, a bottle of port wine was ordered by that gallant gentleman; who +(crushing every pretty thing he could collect, in the soft disposition +of his dainty figure) coiled himself upon the window-seat, while Mr +Flintwinch took a chair opposite to him, with the table between them. Mr +Blandois proposed having the largest glasses in the house, to which Mr +Flintwinch assented. The bumpers filled, Mr Blandois, with a roystering +gaiety, clinked the top of his glass against the bottom of Mr +Flintwinch’s, and the bottom of his glass against the top of Mr +Flintwinch’s, and drank to the intimate acquaintance he foresaw. +Mr Flintwinch gravely pledged him, and drank all the wine he could get, +and said nothing. As often as Mr Blandois clinked glasses (which was +at every replenishment), Mr Flintwinch stolidly did his part of the +clinking, and would have stolidly done his companion’s part of the wine +as well as his own: being, except in the article of palate, a mere cask. + +In short, Mr Blandois found that to pour port wine into the reticent +Flintwinch was, not to open him but to shut him up. Moreover, he had +the appearance of a perfect ability to go on all night; or, if occasion +were, all next day and all next night; whereas Mr Blandois soon grew +indistinctly conscious of swaggering too fiercely and boastfully. He +therefore terminated the entertainment at the end of the third bottle. + +‘You will draw upon us to-morrow, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a +business-like face at parting. + +‘My Cabbage,’ returned the other, taking him by the collar with both +hands, ‘I’ll draw upon you; have no fear. Adieu, my Flintwinch. Receive +at parting;’ here he gave him a southern embrace, and kissed him soundly +on both cheeks; ‘the word of a gentleman! By a thousand Thunders, you +shall see me again!’ + +He did not present himself next day, though the letter of advice came +duly to hand. Inquiring after him at night, Mr Flintwinch found, with +surprise, that he had paid his bill and gone back to the Continent by +way of Calais. Nevertheless, Jeremiah scraped out of his cogitating +face a lively conviction that Mr Blandois would keep his word on this +occasion, and would be seen again. + + + + +CHAPTER 31. Spirit + + +Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the +metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed +to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens +dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping +along with a scared air, as though bewildered and a little frightened +by the noise and bustle. This old man is always a little old man. If he +were ever a big old man, he has shrunk into a little old man; if he were +always a little old man, he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat +is a colour, and cut, that never was the mode anywhere, at any period. +Clearly, it was not made for him, or for any individual mortal. Some +wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such +quality, and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a +long unfinished line of many old men. It has always large dull metal +buttons, similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a +thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat, which has never adapted +itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and his coarse +neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat; they have +the same character of not being his--of not being anybody’s. Yet this +old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being +dressed and elaborated for the public ways; as though he passed the +greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the +country mouse in the second year of a famine, come to see the town +mouse, and timidly threading his way to the town-mouse’s lodging through +a city of cats, this old man passes in the streets. + +Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a +slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist +and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small +measure will overset him; he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with +a half-pint pot. Some pitying acquaintance--chance acquaintance +very often--has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer, and the +consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he +shall pass again. For the little old man is going home to the Workhouse; +and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often (though methinks +they might, considering the few years he has before him to go out in, +under the sun); and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than +ever in a grove of two score and nineteen more old men, every one of +whom smells of all the others. + +Mrs Plornish’s father,--a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like +a worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music-binding +business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able +to make his way, or to see it or to pay it, or to do anything at all +with it but find it no thoroughfare,--had retired of his own accord to +the Workhouse which was appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his +district (without the twopence, which was bad political economy), on +the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the +Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law’s difficulties coming to +that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but +he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of +the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish +cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune +should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved +an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these +little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour. + +But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and +no Old Men’s Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter’s +admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father’s talents as she +could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had +as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she +could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little +old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about +Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; +and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small +internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself +of these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by +a baby. On his ‘days out,’ those flecks of light in his flat vista of +pollard old men,’ it was at once Mrs Plornish’s delight and sorrow, +when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full halfpenny-worth of +porter, to say, ‘Sing us a song, Father.’ Then he would give them Chloe, +and if he were in pretty good spirits, Phyllis also--Strephon he had +hardly been up to since he went into retirement--and then would Mrs +Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as +Father, and wipe her eyes. + +If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the +noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be +presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish +could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart +Yard. ‘Here’s Father,’ she would say, presenting him to a neighbour. +‘Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain’t Father looking +well? Father’s a sweeter singer than ever; you’d never have forgotten +it, if you’d aheard him just now.’ As to Mr Plornish, he had married +these articles of belief in marrying Mr Nandy’s daughter, and only +wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a +fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical +genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. ‘For why,’ +argued Mr Plornish, ‘why go a-binding music when you’ve got it in +yourself? That’s where it is, I consider.’ + +Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain +sumptuous way--an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring +audience to witness that he really could not help being more free +with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his +simplicity and poverty--was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had +been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his +son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to +himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the +patronage of the Father of that national institution. + +Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man +held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats +and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying +district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if +there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old +man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful. +When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner. He +had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his +decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he +could hold up his head at all, poor creature. ‘In the Workhouse, sir, +the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no +speciality. Most deplorable!’ + +It was Old Nandy’s birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about +its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old +men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding +Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and +gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in +to see how they all were. + +‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘here’s Father! Ain’t he looking nice? +And such voice he’s in!’ + +Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him +this long time. + +‘No, they’re rather hard on poor Father,’ said Mrs Plornish with a +lengthening face, ‘and don’t let him have half as much change and fresh +air as would benefit him. But he’ll soon be home for good, now. Won’t +you, Father?’ + +‘Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.’ + +Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably +made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched +in the following terms: + +‘John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there’s a ounce of wittles or drink of +any sort in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on +it. While there’s a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present +roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should +be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share +on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is what I mean +and so I don’t deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out is to +entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?’ + +To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had +composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish’s +father pipingly replied: + +‘I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is +the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as +it’s not to take it out of your children’s mouths, which take it is, and +call it by what name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though +may they come, and too soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!’ + +Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner +of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again +by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his +respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable. + +Her answer was, ‘I am going straight home, and if he will come with me +I shall be so glad to take care of him--so glad,’ said Little Dorrit, +always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, ‘of his company.’ + +‘There, Father!’ cried Mrs Plornish. ‘Ain’t you a gay young man to +be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your +neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you’re a regular beau +yourself, Father, if ever there was one.’ + +With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a +loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and +her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old +father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit’s. + +They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron +Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the +water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he +would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was +to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens, +and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter), +and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five +minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street, +they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port. + +‘Why, good gracious me, Amy!’ cried that young lady starting. ‘You never +mean it!’ + +‘Mean what, Fanny dear?’ + +‘Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,’ returned the young +lady with burning indignation, ‘but I don’t think even I could have +believed this, of even you!’ + +‘Fanny!’ cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished. + +‘Oh! Don’t Fanny me, you mean little thing, don’t! The idea of coming +along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!’ +(firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun). + +‘O Fanny!’ + +‘I tell you not to Fanny me, for I’ll not submit to it! I never knew +such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to +disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!’ + +‘Does it disgrace anybody,’ said Little Dorrit, very gently, ‘to take +care of this poor old man?’ + +‘Yes, miss,’ returned her sister, ‘and you ought to know it does. +And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The +principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their +misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep +low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I +have. You’ll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way, +unmolested.’ + +With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old +disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for +Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and +who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the +way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said, ‘I hope nothing’s +wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope there’s nothing the matter +in the honoured family?’ + +‘No, no,’ returned Little Dorrit. ‘No, thank you. Give me your arm +again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.’ + +So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the +Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened +that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at +the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in +arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the +utmost agitation and despondency of mind; and--altogether regardless of +Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as +he always did in that gracious presence--turned about, and hurried in at +his own doorway and up the staircase. + +Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under +her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little +Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny +following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came +into the room almost together; and the Father sat down in his chair, +buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan. + +‘Of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope +you believe me, Miss?’ + +‘What is it, father?’ cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. ‘Have I +made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!’ + +‘You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you’--Fanny paused for a sufficiently +strong expression--‘you Common-minded little Amy! You complete +prison-child!’ + +He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed +out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger +daughter, ‘Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention. But you +have cut me to the soul.’ + +‘Innocent in intention!’ the implacable Fanny struck in. ‘Stuff in +intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!’ + +‘Father!’ cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. ‘I am very sorry. +Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!’ + +‘How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!’ cried Fanny. ‘You +know how it is. I have told you already, so don’t fly in the face of +Providence by attempting to deny it!’ + +‘Hush! Amy,’ said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several +times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand +that dropped across his knee, ‘I have done what I could to keep you +select here; I have done what I could to retain you a position here. I +may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it; you may not. I give no +opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have +happily been spared--until this day.’ + +Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his +pocket-handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground +beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him +remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his +pocket-handkerchief once more. + +‘Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all +my troubles there has been that--Spirit in myself, and that--that +submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has +spared me--ha--humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly +felt it.’ + +‘Of course! How could it be otherwise?’ exclaimed the irrepressible +Fanny. ‘Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!’ (air-gun again). + +‘But, dear father,’ cried Little Dorrit, ‘I don’t justify myself for +having wounded your dear heart--no! Heaven knows I don’t!’ She clasped +her hands in quite an agony of distress. ‘I do nothing but beg and pray +you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you +were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were +always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I +would not, indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done +in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!’ +said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, ‘for anything the world +could give me, or anything it could take away.’ + +Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry +herself, and to say--as this young lady always said when she was half in +passion and half out of it, half spiteful with herself and half spiteful +with everybody else--that she wished she were dead. + +The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger daughter +to his breast, and patted her head. + +‘There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my child. I will forget it +as soon as I can. I,’ with hysterical cheerfulness, ‘I--shall soon be +able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am always glad +to see my old pensioner--as such, as such--and that I do--ha--extend as +much protection and kindness to the--hum--the bruised reed--I trust I +may so call him without impropriety--as in my circumstances, I can. It +is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same +time, I preserve in doing this, if I may--ha--if I may use the +expression--Spirit. Becoming Spirit. And there are some things which +are,’ he stopped to sob, ‘irreconcilable with that, and wound +that--wound it deeply. It is not that I have seen my good Amy +attentive, and--ha--condescending to my old pensioner--it is not _that_ +that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being +explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, +coming into this College out of the public streets--smiling! +smiling!--arm in arm with--O my God, a livery!’ + +This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate +gentleman gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his +clenched pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings +might have found some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the +door, which had been already twice repeated, and to which Fanny (still +wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so far as to add, buried) +cried ‘Come in!’ + +‘Ah, Young John!’ said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice. ‘What +is it, Young John?’ + +‘A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a +message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would +bring it to your room.’ The speaker’s attention was much distracted by +the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father’s feet, with her +head turned away. + +‘Indeed, John? Thank you.’ + +‘The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir--it’s the answer--and the message +was, sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he +would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see +you, and likewise,’ attention more distracted than before, ‘Miss Amy.’ + +‘Oh!’ As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note in +it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. ‘Thank +you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No +one waiting?’ + +‘No, sir, no one waiting.’ + +‘Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?’ + +‘Thank you, sir, she’s not quite as well as we could wish--in fact, we +none of us are, except father--but she’s pretty well, sir.’ + +‘Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you +please, Young John.’ + +‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ And Mr Chivery junior went his way, having +spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, +to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having +at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And +feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to +the abode of his inconsolable parents, And terminated his existence by +his own rash act. + +‘There, there, Amy!’ said the Father, when Young John had closed the +door, ‘let us say no more about it.’ The last few minutes had improved +his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. ‘Where is my old +pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, +or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me. +Will you fetch him, my child, or shall I?’ + +‘If you wouldn’t mind, father,’ said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her +sobbing to a close. + +‘Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red. +There! Cheer up, Amy. Don’t be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again, +my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look +comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.’ + +‘I would rather stay in my own room, Father,’ returned Little Dorrit, +finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. ‘I would +far rather not see Mr Clennam.’ + +‘Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that’s folly. Mr Clennam is a very gentlemanly +man--very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say +extremely gentlemanly. I couldn’t think of your not being here to +receive Mr Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and +freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen yourself up, like a good girl.’ + +Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing +for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of +reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed +in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she +generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of +wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he should come bothering there +like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and making mischief between +two sisters. + +The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black +velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went +down into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in +hand just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. ‘Come, Nandy!’ +said he, with great suavity. ‘Come up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way; +why don’t you come up-stairs?’ He went the length, on this occasion, +of giving him his hand and saying, ‘How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty +well?’ To which that vocalist returned, ‘I thank you, honoured sir, I am +all the better for seeing your honour.’ As they went along the yard, the +Father of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date. +‘An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.’ And then said, ‘Be +covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,’ with great consideration. + +His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea +ready, and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh butter, +eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a +bank-note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful +of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress, +and his daughter Amy had come back with her work, when Clennam presented +himself; whom he most graciously received, and besought to join their +meal. + +‘Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the happiness +of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr Clennam.’ Fanny +acknowledged him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such +cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not +understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of +the conspirators. ‘This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner +of mine, Old Nandy, a very faithful old man.’ (He always spoke of him as +an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than +himself.) ‘Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think my daughter +Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?’ + +‘O yes!’ said Arthur Clennam. + +‘Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish’s father.’ + +‘Indeed? I am glad to see him.’ + +‘You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr +Clennam.’ + +‘I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,’ said Arthur, +secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure. + +‘It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are +always glad to see him,’ observed the Father of the Marshalsea. Then he +added behind his hand, [‘Union, poor old fellow. Out for the day.’) + +By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had spread +the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison +very close, the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. ‘If Maggy +will spread that newspaper on the window-sill, my dear,’ remarked the +Father complacently and in a half whisper to Little Dorrit, ‘my old +pensioner can have his tea there, while we are having ours.’ + +So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in +width, standard measure, Mrs Plornish’s father was handsomely regaled. +Clennam had never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that +other Father, he of the Marshalsea; and was lost in the contemplation of +its many wonders. + +The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he +remarked on the pensioner’s infirmities and failings, as if he were +a gracious Keeper making a running commentary on the decline of the +harmless animal he exhibited. + +‘Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His last +teeth,’ he explained to the company, ‘are going, poor old boy.’) + +At another time, he said, ‘No shrimps, Nandy?’ and on his not instantly +replying, observed, [‘His hearing is becoming very defective. He’ll be +deaf directly.’) + +At another time he asked him, ‘Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard +within the walls of that place of yours?’ + +‘No, sir; no. I haven’t any great liking for that.’ + +‘No, to be sure,’ he assented. ‘Very natural.’ Then he privately +informed the circle [‘Legs going.’) + +Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him +anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was? + +‘John Edward,’ said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork +to consider. ‘How old, sir? Let me think now.’ + +The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead [‘Memory weak.’) + +‘John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn’t say at this minute, +sir, whether it’s two and two months, or whether it’s two and five +months. It’s one or the other.’ + +‘Don’t distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,’ he returned, +with infinite forbearance. [‘Faculties evidently decaying--old man rusts +in the life he leads!’) + +The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the +pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got out of +his chair after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his intimating +that he feared, honoured sir, his time was running out, he made himself +look as erect and strong as possible. + +‘We don’t call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,’ he said, putting one +in his hand. ‘We call it tobacco.’ + +‘Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to +Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr Clennam.’ + +‘And mind you don’t forget us, you know, Nandy,’ said the Father. ‘You +must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come +out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be +very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandy; they are rather uneven +and worn.’ With that he stood on the landing, watching the old man down: +and when he came into the room again, said, with a solemn satisfaction +on him, ‘A melancholy sight that, Mr Clennam, though one has the +consolation of knowing that he doesn’t feel it himself. The poor old +fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone--pulverised--crushed +out of him, sir, completely!’ + +As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive +to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator, +while Maggy and her Little Mother washed the tea-service and cleared it +away. He noticed that his companion stood at the window with the air of +an affable and accessible Sovereign, and that, when any of his people in +the yard below looked up, his recognition of their salutes just stopped +short of a blessing. + +When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the +bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her +departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At this +time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr Tip came in. He kissed +Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his +father, gloomed on the visitor without further recognition, and sat +down. + +‘Tip, dear,’ said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, ‘don’t you +see--’ + +‘Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have +here--I say, if you refer to that,’ answered Tip, jerking his head with +emphasis towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, ‘I see!’ + +‘Is that all you say?’ + +‘That’s all I say. And I suppose,’ added the lofty young man, after a +moment’s pause, ‘that visitor will understand me, when I say that’s all +I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn’t +used me like a gentleman.’ + +‘I do not understand that,’ observed the obnoxious personage referred to +with tranquillity. + +‘No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know +that when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and an urgent +appeal, and a delicate appeal, to an individual, for a small temporary +accommodation, easily within his power--easily within his power, +mind!--and when that individual writes back word to me that he begs to +be excused, I consider that he doesn’t treat me like a gentleman.’ + +The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no +sooner heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:-- + +‘How dare you--’ But his son stopped him. + +‘Now, don’t ask me how I dare, father, because that’s bosh. As to the +fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual +present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper spirit.’ + +‘I should think so!’ cried Fanny. + +‘A proper spirit?’ said the Father. ‘Yes, a proper spirit; a becoming +spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me--_me_--spirit!’ + +‘Now, don’t let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the +subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present has +not treated me like a gentleman. And there’s an end of it.’ + +‘But there is not an end of it, sir,’ returned the Father. ‘But there +shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You have made up +your mind?’ + +‘Yes, _I_ have. What’s the good of keeping on like that?’ + +‘Because,’ returned the Father, in a great heat, ‘you had no right to +make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is--ha--immoral, to what +is--hum--parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don’t ask me to desist; +there is a--hum--a general principle involved here, which rises even +above considerations of--ha--hospitality. I object to the assertion made +by my son. I--ha--I personally repel it.’ + +‘Why, what is it to you, father?’ returned the son, over his shoulder. + +‘What is it to me, sir? I have a--hum--a spirit, sir, that will not +endure it. I,’ he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and dabbed his +face. ‘I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I +myself may at a certain time--ha--or times, have made a--hum--an appeal, +and a properly-worded appeal, and a delicate appeal, and an urgent +appeal to some individual for a small temporary accommodation. Let me +suppose that that accommodation could have been easily extended, and was +not extended, and that that individual informed me that he begged to +be excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore received +treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I--ha--I submitted to it?’ + +His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any +account be calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn’t endure this. + +Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on his +own hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by +his own blood? + +‘You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this +injury of your own accord!’ said the young gentleman morosely. ‘What I +have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you. What I said had +nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on other people’s hats?’ + +‘I reply it has everything to do with me,’ returned the Father. ‘I point +out to you, sir, with indignation, that--hum--the--ha--delicacy and +peculiarity of your father’s position should strike you dumb, sir, if +nothing else should, in laying down such--ha--such unnatural principles. +Besides; if you are not filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you +are at least--hum--not a Christian? Are you--ha--an Atheist? And is it +Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatise and denounce an individual +for begging to be excused this time, when the same individual +may--ha--respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the +part of a Christian not to--hum--not to try him again?’ He had worked +himself into quite a religious glow and fervour. + +‘I see precious well,’ said Mr Tip, rising, ‘that I shall get no +sensible or fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I can do +is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don’t be vexed. I am very sorry it happens +here, and you here, upon my soul I am; but I can’t altogether part with +my spirit, even for your sake, old girl.’ + +With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss +Fanny; who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of +Clennam with any less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing +that she had always known him for one of the large body of conspirators. + +When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first inclined +to sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that a +gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to +the Snuggery. It was the gentleman Clennam had seen on the night of his +own accidental detention there, who had that impalpable grievance about +the misappropriated Fund on which the Marshal was supposed to batten. +He presented himself as deputation to escort the Father to the Chair, it +being an occasion on which he had promised to preside over the assembled +Collegians in the enjoyment of a little Harmony. + +‘Such, you see, Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘are the incongruities +of my position here. But a public duty! No man, I am sure, would more +readily recognise a public duty than yourself.’ + +Clennam besought him not to delay a moment. + +‘Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can +leave the honours of our poor apology for an establishment with +confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards +erasing from Mr Clennam’s mind the--ha--untoward and unpleasant +circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.’ + +Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and +therefore required no erasure. + +‘My dear sir,’ said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and a +grasp of Clennam’s hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his +note and enclosure that afternoon, ‘Heaven ever bless you!’ + +So, at last, Clennam’s purpose in remaining was attained, and he could +speak to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as nobody, and she +was by. + + + + +CHAPTER 32. More Fortune-Telling + + +Maggy sat at her work in her great white cap with its quantity of opaque +frilling hiding what profile she had (she had none to spare), and her +serviceable eye brought to bear upon her occupation, on the window side +of the room. What with her flapping cap, and what with her unserviceable +eye, she was quite partitioned off from her Little Mother, whose seat +was opposite the window. The tread and shuffle of feet on the pavement +of the yard had much diminished since the taking of the Chair, the tide +of Collegians having set strongly in the direction of Harmony. Some few +who had no music in their souls, or no money in their pockets, dawdled +about; and the old spectacle of the visitor-wife and the depressed +unseasoned prisoner still lingered in corners, as broken cobwebs and +such unsightly discomforts draggle in corners of other places. It was +the quietest time the College knew, saving the night hours when the +Collegians took the benefit of the act of sleep. The occasional rattle +of applause upon the tables of the Snuggery, denoted the successful +termination of a morsel of Harmony; or the responsive acceptance, by +the united children, of some toast or sentiment offered to them by their +Father. Occasionally, a vocal strain more sonorous than the generality +informed the listener that some boastful bass was in blue water, or in +the hunting field, or with the reindeer, or on the mountain, or among +the heather; but the Marshal of the Marshalsea knew better, and had got +him hard and fast. + +As Arthur Clennam moved to sit down by the side of Little Dorrit, she +trembled so that she had much ado to hold her needle. Clennam gently +put his hand upon her work, and said, ‘Dear Little Dorrit, let me lay it +down.’ + +She yielded it to him, and he put it aside. Her hands were then +nervously clasping together, but he took one of them. + +‘How seldom I have seen you lately, Little Dorrit!’ + +‘I have been busy, sir.’ + +‘But I heard only to-day,’ said Clennam, ‘by mere accident, of your +having been with those good people close by me. Why not come to me, +then?’ + +‘I--I don’t know. Or rather, I thought you might be busy too. You +generally are now, are you not?’ + +He saw her trembling little form and her downcast face, and the eyes +that drooped the moment they were raised to his--he saw them almost with +as much concern as tenderness. + +‘My child, your manner is so changed!’ + +The trembling was now quite beyond her control. Softly withdrawing her +hand, and laying it in her other hand, she sat before him with her head +bent and her whole form trembling. + +‘My own Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam, compassionately. + +She burst into tears. Maggy looked round of a sudden, and stared for at +least a minute; but did not interpose. Clennam waited some little while +before he spoke again. + +‘I cannot bear,’ he said then, ‘to see you weep; but I hope this is a +relief to an overcharged heart.’ + +‘Yes it is, sir. Nothing but that.’ + +‘Well, well! I feared you would think too much of what passed here just +now. It is of no moment; not the least. I am only unfortunate to have +come in the way. Let it go by with these tears. It is not worth one of +them. One of them? Such an idle thing should be repeated, with my glad +consent, fifty times a day, to save you a moment’s heart-ache, Little +Dorrit.’ + +She had taken courage now, and answered, far more in her usual manner, +‘You are so good! But even if there was nothing else in it to be sorry +for and ashamed of, it is such a bad return to you--’ + +‘Hush!’ said Clennam, smiling and touching her lips with his hand. +‘Forgetfulness in you who remember so many and so much, would be new +indeed. Shall I remind you that I am not, and that I never was, anything +but the friend whom you agreed to trust? No. You remember it, don’t +you?’ + +‘I try to do so, or I should have broken the promise just now, when my +mistaken brother was here. You will consider his bringing-up in this +place, and will not judge him hardly, poor fellow, I know!’ In raising +her eyes with these words, she observed his face more nearly than she +had done yet, and said, with a quick change of tone, ‘You have not been +ill, Mr Clennam?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Nor tried? Nor hurt?’ she asked him, anxiously. + +It fell to Clennam now, to be not quite certain how to answer. He said +in reply: + +‘To speak the truth, I have been a little troubled, but it is over. +Do I show it so plainly? I ought to have more fortitude and self-command +than that. I thought I had. I must learn them of you. Who could teach me +better!’ + +He never thought that she saw in him what no one else could see. He +never thought that in the whole world there were no other eyes that +looked upon him with the same light and strength as hers. + +‘But it brings me to something that I wish to say,’ he continued, ‘and +therefore I will not quarrel even with my own face for telling tales +and being unfaithful to me. Besides, it is a privilege and pleasure to +confide in my Little Dorrit. Let me confess then, that, forgetting how +grave I was, and how old I was, and how the time for such things had +gone by me with the many years of sameness and little happiness that +made up my long life far away, without marking it--that, forgetting all +this, I fancied I loved some one.’ + +‘Do I know her, sir?’ asked Little Dorrit. + +‘No, my child.’ + +‘Not the lady who has been kind to me for your sake?’ + +‘Flora. No, no. Do you think--’ + +‘I never quite thought so,’ said Little Dorrit, more to herself than +him. ‘I did wonder at it a little.’ + +‘Well!’ said Clennam, abiding by the feeling that had fallen on him in +the avenue on the night of the roses, the feeling that he was an +older man, who had done with that tender part of life, ‘I found out my +mistake, and I thought about it a little--in short, a good deal--and got +wiser. Being wiser, I counted up my years and considered what I am, and +looked back, and looked forward, and found that I should soon be grey. I +found that I had climbed the hill, and passed the level ground upon the +top, and was descending quickly.’ + +If he had known the sharpness of the pain he caused the patient heart, +in speaking thus! While doing it, too, with the purpose of easing and +serving her. + +‘I found that the day when any such thing would have been graceful in +me, or good in me, or hopeful or happy for me or any one in connection +with me, was gone, and would never shine again.’ + +O! If he had known, if he had known! If he could have seen the dagger in +his hand, and the cruel wounds it struck in the faithful bleeding breast +of his Little Dorrit! + +‘All that is over, and I have turned my face from it. Why do I speak of +this to Little Dorrit? Why do I show you, my child, the space of years +that there is between us, and recall to you that I have passed, by the +amount of your whole life, the time that is present to you?’ + +‘Because you trust me, I hope. Because you know that nothing can touch +you without touching me; that nothing can make you happy or unhappy, but +it must make me, who am so grateful to you, the same.’ + +He heard the thrill in her voice, he saw her earnest face, he saw her +clear true eyes, he saw the quickened bosom that would have joyfully +thrown itself before him to receive a mortal wound directed at his +breast, with the dying cry, ‘I love him!’ and the remotest suspicion +of the truth never dawned upon his mind. No. He saw the devoted little +creature with her worn shoes, in her common dress, in her jail-home; a +slender child in body, a strong heroine in soul; and the light of her +domestic story made all else dark to him. + +‘For those reasons assuredly, Little Dorrit, but for another too. So +far removed, so different, and so much older, I am the better fitted for +your friend and adviser. I mean, I am the more easily to be trusted; +and any little constraint that you might feel with another, may vanish +before me. Why have you kept so retired from me? Tell me.’ + +‘I am better here. My place and use are here. I am much better here,’ +said Little Dorrit, faintly. + +‘So you said that day upon the bridge. I thought of it much afterwards. +Have you no secret you could entrust to me, with hope and comfort, if +you would!’ + +‘Secret? No, I have no secret,’ said Little Dorrit in some trouble. + +They had been speaking in low voices; more because it was natural to +what they said to adopt that tone, than with any care to reserve it from +Maggy at her work. All of a sudden Maggy stared again, and this time +spoke: + +‘I say! Little Mother!’ + +‘Yes, Maggy.’ + +‘If you an’t got no secret of your own to tell him, tell him that about +the Princess. _She_ had a secret, you know.’ + +‘The Princess had a secret?’ said Clennam, in some surprise. ‘What +Princess was that, Maggy?’ + +‘Lor! How you do go and bother a gal of ten,’ said Maggy, ‘catching the +poor thing up in that way. Whoever said the Princess had a secret? _I_ +never said so.’ + +‘I beg your pardon. I thought you did.’ + +‘No, I didn’t. How could I, when it was her as wanted to find it out? It +was the little woman as had the secret, and she was always a spinning at +her wheel. And so she says to her, why do you keep it there? And so the +t’other one says to her, no I don’t; and so the t’other one says to her, +yes you do; and then they both goes to the cupboard, and there it is. +And she wouldn’t go into the Hospital, and so she died. _You_ know, Little +Mother; tell him that. For it was a reg’lar good secret, that was!’ cried +Maggy, hugging herself. + +Arthur looked at Little Dorrit for help to comprehend this, and was +struck by seeing her so timid and red. But, when she told him that it +was only a Fairy Tale she had one day made up for Maggy, and that there +was nothing in it which she wouldn’t be ashamed to tell again to anybody +else, even if she could remember it, he left the subject where it was. + +However, he returned to his own subject by first entreating her to see +him oftener, and to remember that it was impossible to have a stronger +interest in her welfare than he had, or to be more set upon promoting it +than he was. When she answered fervently, she well knew that, she never +forgot it, he touched upon his second and more delicate point--the +suspicion he had formed. + +‘Little Dorrit,’ he said, taking her hand again, and speaking lower than +he had spoken yet, so that even Maggy in the small room could not hear +him, ‘another word. I have wanted very much to say this to you; I have +tried for opportunities. Don’t mind me, who, for the matter of years, +might be your father or your uncle. Always think of me as quite an +old man. I know that all your devotion centres in this room, and +that nothing to the last will ever tempt you away from the duties you +discharge here. If I were not sure of it, I should, before now, have +implored you, and implored your father, to let me make some provision +for you in a more suitable place. But you may have an interest--I will +not say, now, though even that might be--may have, at another time, +an interest in some one else; an interest not incompatible with your +affection here.’ + +She was very, very pale, and silently shook her head. + +‘It may be, dear Little Dorrit.’ + +‘No. No. No.’ She shook her head, after each slow repetition of +the word, with an air of quiet desolation that he remembered long +afterwards. The time came when he remembered it well, long afterwards, +within those prison walls; within that very room. + +‘But, if it ever should be, tell me so, my dear child. Entrust the truth +to me, point out the object of such an interest to me, and I will try +with all the zeal, and honour, and friendship and respect that I feel +for you, good Little Dorrit of my heart, to do you a lasting service.’ + +‘O thank you, thank you! But, O no, O no, O no!’ She said this, looking +at him with her work-worn hands folded together, and in the same +resigned accents as before. + +‘I press for no confidence now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating +trust in me.’ + +‘Can I do less than that, when you are so good!’ + +‘Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness, or +anxiety, concealed from me?’ + +‘Almost none.’ + +‘And you have none now?’ + +She shook her head. But she was very pale. + +‘When I lie down to-night, and my thoughts come back--as they will, for +they do every night, even when I have not seen you--to this sad place, I +may believe that there is no grief beyond this room, now, and its usual +occupants, which preys on Little Dorrit’s mind?’ + +She seemed to catch at these words--that he remembered, too, long +afterwards--and said, more brightly, ‘Yes, Mr Clennam; yes, you may!’ + +The crazy staircase, usually not slow to give notice when any one was +coming up or down, here creaked under a quick tread, and a further sound +was heard upon it, as if a little steam-engine with more steam than it +knew what to do with, were working towards the room. As it approached, +which it did very rapidly, it laboured with increased energy; and, +after knocking at the door, it sounded as if it were stooping down and +snorting in at the keyhole. + +Before Maggy could open the door, Mr Pancks, opening it from without, +stood without a hat and with his bare head in the wildest condition, +looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit, over her shoulder. He had a +lighted cigar in his hand, and brought with him airs of ale and tobacco +smoke. + +‘Pancks the gipsy,’ he observed out of breath, ‘fortune-telling.’ + +He stood dingily smiling, and breathing hard at them, with a most +curious air; as if, instead of being his proprietor’s grubber, he were +the triumphant proprietor of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the +turnkeys, and all the Collegians. In his great self-satisfaction he put +his cigar to his lips (being evidently no smoker), and took such a pull +at it, with his right eye shut up tight for the purpose, that he +underwent a convulsion of shuddering and choking. But even in the midst +of that paroxysm, he still essayed to repeat his favourite introduction +of himself, ‘Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling.’ + +‘I am spending the evening with the rest of ‘em,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve +been singing. I’ve been taking a part in White sand and grey sand. +_I_ don’t know anything about it. Never mind. I’ll take any part in +anything. It’s all the same, if you’re loud enough.’ + +At first Clennam supposed him to be intoxicated. But he soon perceived +that though he might be a little the worse (or better) for ale, the +staple of his excitement was not brewed from malt, or distilled from any +grain or berry. + +‘How d’ye do, Miss Dorrit?’ said Pancks. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind my +running round, and looking in for a moment. Mr Clennam I heard was here, +from Mr Dorrit. How are you, Sir?’ + +Clennam thanked him, and said he was glad to see him so gay. + +‘Gay!’ said Pancks. ‘I’m in wonderful feather, sir. I can’t stop a +minute, or I shall be missed, and I don’t want ‘em to miss me.--Eh, Miss +Dorrit?’ + +He seemed to have an insatiate delight in appealing to her and looking +at her; excitedly sticking his hair up at the same moment, like a dark +species of cockatoo. + +‘I haven’t been here half an hour. I knew Mr Dorrit was in the chair, +and I said, “I’ll go and support him!” I ought to be down in Bleeding +Heart Yard by rights; but I can worry them to-morrow.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?’ + +His little black eyes sparkled electrically. His very hair seemed to +sparkle as he roughened it. He was in that highly-charged state that one +might have expected to draw sparks and snaps from him by presenting a +knuckle to any part of his figure. + +‘Capital company here,’ said Pancks.--‘Eh, Miss Dorrit?’ + +She was half afraid of him, and irresolute what to say. He laughed, with +a nod towards Clennam. + +‘Don’t mind him, Miss Dorrit. He’s one of us. We agreed that you +shouldn’t take on to mind me before people, but we didn’t mean Mr +Clennam. He’s one of us. He’s in it. An’t you, Mr Clennam?--Eh, Miss +Dorrit?’ + +The excitement of this strange creature was fast communicating itself to +Clennam. Little Dorrit with amazement, saw this, and observed that they +exchanged quick looks. + +‘I was making a remark,’ said Pancks, ‘but I declare I forget what +it was. Oh, I know! Capital company here. I’ve been treating ‘em all +round.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?’ + +‘Very generous of you,’ she returned, noticing another of the quick +looks between the two. + +‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m coming into my +property, that’s the fact. I can afford to be liberal. I think I’ll give +‘em a treat here. Tables laid in the yard. Bread in stacks. Pipes in +faggots. Tobacco in hayloads. Roast beef and plum-pudding for every one. +Quart of double stout a head. Pint of wine too, if they like it, and the +authorities give permission.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?’ + +She was thrown into such a confusion by his manner, or rather by +Clennam’s growing understanding of his manner (for she looked to him +after every fresh appeal and cockatoo demonstration on the part of Mr +Pancks), that she only moved her lips in answer, without forming any +word. + +‘And oh, by-the-bye!’ said Pancks, ‘you were to live to know what was +behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you shall, you shall, my +darling.--Eh, Miss Dorrit?’ + +He had suddenly checked himself. Where he got all the additional black +prongs from, that now flew up all over his head like the myriads of +points that break out in the large change of a great firework, was a +wonderful mystery. + +‘But I shall be missed;’ he came back to that; ‘and I don’t want ‘em to +miss me. Mr Clennam, you and I made a bargain. I said you should find me +stick to it. You shall find me stick to it now, sir, if you’ll step out +of the room a moment. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good night. Miss Dorrit, I +wish you good fortune.’ + +He rapidly shook her by both hands, and puffed down stairs. Arthur +followed him with such a hurried step, that he had very nearly tumbled +over him on the last landing, and rolled him down into the yard. + +‘What is it, for Heaven’s sake!’ Arthur demanded, when they burst out +there both together. + +‘Stop a moment, sir. Mr Rugg. Let me introduce him.’ + +With those words he presented another man without a hat, and also with a +cigar, and also surrounded with a halo of ale and tobacco smoke, which +man, though not so excited as himself, was in a state which would have +been akin to lunacy but for its fading into sober method when compared +with the rampancy of Mr Pancks. + +‘Mr Clennam, Mr Rugg,’ said Pancks. ‘Stop a moment. Come to the pump.’ + +They adjourned to the pump. Mr Pancks, instantly putting his head under +the spout, requested Mr Rugg to take a good strong turn at the handle. +Mr Rugg complying to the letter, Mr Pancks came forth snorting and +blowing to some purpose, and dried himself on his handkerchief. + +‘I am the clearer for that,’ he gasped to Clennam standing astonished. +‘But upon my soul, to hear her father making speeches in that chair, +knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress, +knowing what we know, is enough to--give me a back, Mr Rugg--a little +higher, sir,--that’ll do!’ + +Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the shades of evening, +did Mr Pancks, of all mankind, fly over the head and shoulders of Mr +Rugg of Pentonville, General Agent, Accountant, and Recoverer of Debts. +Alighting on his feet, he took Clennam by the button-hole, led him +behind the pump, and pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of +papers. + +Mr Rugg, also, pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers. + +‘Stay!’ said Clennam in a whisper.’You have made a discovery.’ + +Mr Pancks answered, with an unction which there is no language to +convey, ‘We rather think so.’ + +‘Does it implicate any one?’ + +‘How implicate, sir?’ + +‘In any suppression or wrong dealing of any kind?’ + +‘Not a bit of it.’ + +‘Thank God!’ said Clennam to himself. ‘Now show me.’ + +‘You are to understand’--snorted Pancks, feverishly unfolding papers, +and speaking in short high-pressure blasts of sentences, ‘Where’s the +Pedigree? Where’s Schedule number four, Mr Rugg? Oh! all right! Here we +are.--You are to understand that we are this very day virtually +complete. We shan’t be legally for a day or two. Call it at the outside +a week. We’ve been at it night and day for I don’t know how long. Mr +Rugg, you know how long? Never mind. Don’t say. You’ll only confuse me. +You shall tell her, Mr Clennam. Not till we give you leave. Where’s that +rough total, Mr Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There sir! That’s what you’ll +have to break to her. That man’s your Father of the Marshalsea!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint + + +Resigning herself to inevitable fate by making the best of those people, +the Miggleses, and submitting her philosophy to the draught upon it, of +which she had foreseen the likelihood in her interview with Arthur, +Mrs Gowan handsomely resolved not to oppose her son’s marriage. In her +progress to, and happy arrival at, this resolution, she was possibly +influenced, not only by her maternal affections but by three politic +considerations. + +Of these, the first may have been that her son had never signified the +smallest intention to ask her consent, or any mistrust of his ability +to dispense with it; the second, that the pension bestowed upon her by a +grateful country (and a Barnacle) would be freed from any little filial +inroads, when her Henry should be married to the darling only child of +a man in very easy circumstances; the third, that Henry’s debts must +clearly be paid down upon the altar-railing by his father-in-law. When, +to these three-fold points of prudence there is added the fact that +Mrs Gowan yielded her consent the moment she knew of Mr Meagles having +yielded his, and that Mr Meagles’s objection to the marriage had +been the sole obstacle in its way all along, it becomes the height of +probability that the relict of the deceased Commissioner of nothing +particular, turned these ideas in her sagacious mind. + +Among her connections and acquaintances, however, she maintained her +individual dignity and the dignity of the blood of the Barnacles, by +diligently nursing the pretence that it was a most unfortunate business; +that she was sadly cut up by it; that this was a perfect fascination +under which Henry laboured; that she had opposed it for a long time, +but what could a mother do; and the like. She had already called Arthur +Clennam to bear witness to this fable, as a friend of the Meagles +family; and she followed up the move by now impounding the family itself +for the same purpose. In the first interview she accorded to Mr Meagles, +she slided herself into the position of disconsolately but gracefully +yielding to irresistible pressure. With the utmost politeness and +good-breeding, she feigned that it was she--not he--who had made the +difficulty, and who at length gave way; and that the sacrifice was +hers--not his. The same feint, with the same polite dexterity, she +foisted on Mrs Meagles, as a conjuror might have forced a card on that +innocent lady; and, when her future daughter-in-law was presented to her +by her son, she said on embracing her, ‘My dear, what have you done to +Henry that has bewitched him so!’ at the same time allowing a few tears +to carry before them, in little pills, the cosmetic powder on her nose; +as a delicate but touching signal that she suffered much inwardly for +the show of composure with which she bore her misfortune. + +Among the friends of Mrs Gowan (who piqued herself at once on being +Society, and on maintaining intimate and easy relations with that +Power), Mrs Merdle occupied a front row. True, the Hampton Court +Bohemians, without exception, turned up their noses at Merdle as an +upstart; but they turned them down again, by falling flat on their faces +to worship his wealth. In which compensating adjustment of their noses, +they were pretty much like Treasury, Bar, and Bishop, and all the rest +of them. + +To Mrs Merdle, Mrs Gowan repaired on a visit of self-condolence, after +having given the gracious consent aforesaid. She drove into town for the +purpose in a one-horse carriage irreverently called at that period of +English history, a pill-box. It belonged to a job-master in a small way, +who drove it himself, and who jobbed it by the day, or hour, to most of +the old ladies in Hampton Court Palace; but it was a point of ceremony, +in that encampment, that the whole equipage should be tacitly regarded +as the private property of the jobber for the time being, and that the +job-master should betray personal knowledge of nobody but the jobber +in possession. So the Circumlocution Barnacles, who were the largest +job-masters in the universe, always pretended to know of no other job +but the job immediately in hand. + +Mrs Merdle was at home, and was in her nest of crimson and gold, with +the parrot on a neighbouring stem watching her with his head on one +side, as if he took her for another splendid parrot of a larger species. +To whom entered Mrs Gowan, with her favourite green fan, which softened +the light on the spots of bloom. + +‘My dear soul,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the back of her friend’s hand +with this fan after a little indifferent conversation, ‘you are my only +comfort. That affair of Henry’s that I told you of, is to take place. +Now, how does it strike you? I am dying to know, because you represent +and express Society so well.’ + +Mrs Merdle reviewed the bosom which Society was accustomed to review; +and having ascertained that show-window of Mr Merdle’s and the London +jewellers’ to be in good order, replied: + +‘As to marriage on the part of a man, my dear, Society requires that +he should retrieve his fortunes by marriage. Society requires that +he should gain by marriage. Society requires that he should found a +handsome establishment by marriage. Society does not see, otherwise, +what he has to do with marriage. Bird, be quiet!’ + +For the parrot on his cage above them, presiding over the conference as +if he were a judge (and indeed he looked rather like one), had wound up +the exposition with a shriek. + +‘Cases there are,’ said Mrs Merdle, delicately crooking the little +finger of her favourite hand, and making her remarks neater by that neat +action; ‘cases there are where a man is not young or elegant, and is +rich, and has a handsome establishment already. Those are of a different +kind. In such cases--’ + +Mrs Merdle shrugged her snowy shoulders and put her hand upon the +jewel-stand, checking a little cough, as though to add, ‘why, a man +looks out for this sort of thing, my dear.’ Then the parrot shrieked +again, and she put up her glass to look at him, and said, ‘Bird! Do be +quiet!’ + +‘But, young men,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘and by young men you know +what I mean, my love--I mean people’s sons who have the world before +them--they must place themselves in a better position towards Society by +marriage, or Society really will not have any patience with their making +fools of themselves. Dreadfully worldly all this sounds,’ said Mrs +Merdle, leaning back in her nest and putting up her glass again, ‘does +it not?’ + +‘But it is true,’ said Mrs Gowan, with a highly moral air. + +‘My dear, it is not to be disputed for a moment,’ returned Mrs Merdle; +‘because Society has made up its mind on the subject, and there is +nothing more to be said. If we were in a more primitive state, if we +lived under roofs of leaves, and kept cows and sheep and creatures +instead of banker’s accounts (which would be delicious; my dear, I am +pastoral to a degree, by nature), well and good. But we don’t live +under leaves, and keep cows and sheep and creatures. I perfectly exhaust +myself sometimes, in pointing out the distinction to Edmund Sparkler.’ + +Mrs Gowan, looking over her green fan when this young gentleman’s name +was mentioned, replied as follows: + +‘My love, you know the wretched state of the country--those unfortunate +concessions of John Barnacle’s!--and you therefore know the reasons for +my being as poor as Thingummy.’ + +‘A church mouse?’ Mrs Merdle suggested with a smile. + +‘I was thinking of the other proverbial church person--Job,’ said Mrs +Gowan. ‘Either will do. It would be idle to disguise, consequently, that +there is a wide difference between the position of your son and mine. I +may add, too, that Henry has talent--’ + +‘Which Edmund certainly has not,’ said Mrs Merdle, with the greatest +suavity. + +‘--and that his talent, combined with disappointment,’ Mrs Gowan went +on, ‘has led him into a pursuit which--ah dear me! You know, my dear. +Such being Henry’s different position, the question is what is the most +inferior class of marriage to which I can reconcile myself.’ + +Mrs Merdle was so much engaged with the contemplation of her arms +(beautiful-formed arms, and the very thing for bracelets), that she +omitted to reply for a while. Roused at length by the silence, she +folded the arms, and with admirable presence of mind looked her friend +full in the face, and said interrogatively, ‘Ye-es? And then?’ + +‘And then, my dear,’ said Mrs Gowan not quite so sweetly as before, ‘I +should be glad to hear what you have to say to it.’ + +Here the parrot, who had been standing on one leg since he screamed +last, burst into a fit of laughter, bobbed himself derisively up and +down on both legs, and finished by standing on one leg again, and +pausing for a reply, with his head as much awry as he could possibly +twist it. + +‘Sounds mercenary to ask what the gentleman is to get with the lady,’ +said Mrs Merdle; ‘but Society is perhaps a little mercenary, you know, +my dear.’ + +‘From what I can make out,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘I believe I may say that +Henry will be relieved from debt--’ + +‘Much in debt?’ asked Mrs Merdle through her eyeglass. + +‘Why tolerably, I should think,’ said Mrs Gowan. + +‘Meaning the usual thing; I understand; just so,’ Mrs Merdle observed in +a comfortable sort of way. + +‘And that the father will make them an allowance of three hundred +a-year, or perhaps altogether something more, which, in Italy-’ + +‘Oh! Going to Italy?’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘For Henry to study. You need be at no loss to guess why, my dear. +That dreadful Art--’ + +True. Mrs Merdle hastened to spare the feelings of her afflicted friend. +She understood. Say no more! + +‘And that,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her despondent head, ‘that’s all. +That,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, furling her green fan for the moment, and +tapping her chin with it (it was on the way to being a double chin; +might be called a chin and a half at present), ‘that’s all! On the death +of the old people, I suppose there will be more to come; but how it may +be restricted or locked up, I don’t know. And as to that, they may live +for ever. My dear, they are just the kind of people to do it.’ + +Now, Mrs Merdle, who really knew her friend Society pretty well, and who +knew what Society’s mothers were, and what Society’s daughters were, and +what Society’s matrimonial market was, and how prices ruled in it, and +what scheming and counter-scheming took place for the high buyers, and +what bargaining and huckstering went on, thought in the depths of +her capacious bosom that this was a sufficiently good catch. Knowing, +however, what was expected of her, and perceiving the exact nature of +the fiction to be nursed, she took it delicately in her arms, and put +her required contribution of gloss upon it. + +‘And that is all, my dear?’ said she, heaving a friendly sigh. ‘Well, +well! The fault is not yours. You have nothing to reproach yourself +with. You must exercise the strength of mind for which you are renowned, +and make the best of it.’ + +‘The girl’s family have made,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of course, the most +strenuous endeavours to--as the lawyers say--to have and to hold Henry.’ + +‘Of course they have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘I have persisted in every possible objection, and have worried +myself morning, noon, and night, for means to detach Henry from the +connection.’ + +‘No doubt you have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘And all of no use. All has broken down beneath me. Now tell me, my +love. Am I justified in at last yielding my most reluctant consent to +Henry’s marrying among people not in Society; or, have I acted with +inexcusable weakness?’ + +In answer to this direct appeal, Mrs Merdle assured Mrs Gowan (speaking +as a Priestess of Society) that she was highly to be commended, that +she was much to be sympathised with, that she had taken the highest of +parts, and had come out of the furnace refined. And Mrs Gowan, who of +course saw through her own threadbare blind perfectly, and who knew that +Mrs Merdle saw through it perfectly, and who knew that Society would see +through it perfectly, came out of this form, notwithstanding, as she had +gone into it, with immense complacency and gravity. + +The conference was held at four or five o’clock in the afternoon, when +all the region of Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was resonant of +carriage-wheels and double-knocks. It had reached this point when Mr +Merdle came home from his daily occupation of causing the British +name to be more and more respected in all parts of the civilised globe +capable of the appreciation of world-wide commercial enterprise and +gigantic combinations of skill and capital. For, though nobody knew with +the least precision what Mr Merdle’s business was, except that it was +to coin money, these were the terms in which everybody defined it on all +ceremonious occasions, and which it was the last new polite reading of +the parable of the camel and the needle’s eye to accept without inquiry. + +For a gentleman who had this splendid work cut out for him, Mr Merdle +looked a little common, and rather as if, in the course of his vast +transactions, he had accidentally made an interchange of heads with +some inferior spirit. He presented himself before the two ladies in the +course of a dismal stroll through his mansion, which had no apparent +object but escape from the presence of the chief butler. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, stopping short in confusion; ‘I didn’t +know there was anybody here but the parrot.’ + +However, as Mrs Merdle said, ‘You can come in!’ and as Mrs Gowan said +she was just going, and had already risen to take her leave, he came in, +and stood looking out at a distant window, with his hands crossed under +his uneasy coat-cuffs, clasping his wrists as if he were taking himself +into custody. In this attitude he fell directly into a reverie from +which he was only aroused by his wife’s calling to him from her ottoman, +when they had been for some quarter of an hour alone. + +‘Eh? Yes?’ said Mr Merdle, turning towards her. ‘What is it?’ + +‘What is it?’ repeated Mrs Merdle. ‘It is, I suppose, that you have not +heard a word of my complaint.’ + +‘Your complaint, Mrs Merdle?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I didn’t know that you +were suffering from a complaint. What complaint?’ + +‘A complaint of you,’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘Oh! A complaint of me,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘What is the--what have I--what +may you have to complain of in me, Mrs Merdle?’ + +In his withdrawing, abstracted, pondering way, it took him some time to +shape this question. As a kind of faint attempt to convince himself +that he was the master of the house, he concluded by presenting his +forefinger to the parrot, who expressed his opinion on that subject by +instantly driving his bill into it. + +‘You were saying, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, with his wounded finger +in his mouth, ‘that you had a complaint against me?’ + +‘A complaint which I could scarcely show the justice of more +emphatically, than by having to repeat it,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘I might as +well have stated it to the wall. I had far better have stated it to the +bird. He would at least have screamed.’ + +‘You don’t want me to scream, Mrs Merdle, I suppose,’ said Mr Merdle, +taking a chair. + +‘Indeed I don’t know,’ retorted Mrs Merdle, ‘but that you had better do +that, than be so moody and distraught. One would at least know that you +were sensible of what was going on around you.’ + +‘A man might scream, and yet not be that, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, +heavily. + +‘And might be dogged, as you are at present, without screaming,’ +returned Mrs Merdle. ‘That’s very true. If you wish to know the +complaint I make against you, it is, in so many plain words, that you +really ought not to go into Society unless you can accommodate yourself +to Society.’ + +Mr Merdle, so twisting his hands into what hair he had upon his head +that he seemed to lift himself up by it as he started out of his chair, +cried: + +‘Why, in the name of all the infernal powers, Mrs Merdle, who +does more for Society than I do? Do you see these premises, Mrs Merdle? +Do you see this furniture, Mrs Merdle? Do you look in the glass and see +yourself, Mrs Merdle? Do you know the cost of all this, and who it’s +all provided for? And yet will you tell me that I oughtn’t to go into +Society? I, who shower money upon it in this way? I, who might always be +said--to--to--to harness myself to a watering-cart full of money, and go +about saturating Society every day of my life.’ + +‘Pray, don’t be violent, Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘Violent?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘You are enough to make me desperate. You +don’t know half of what I do to accommodate Society. You don’t know +anything of the sacrifices I make for it.’ + +‘I know,’ returned Mrs Merdle, ‘that you receive the best in the land. I +know that you move in the whole Society of the country. And I believe +I know (indeed, not to make any ridiculous pretence about it, I know I +know) who sustains you in it, Mr Merdle.’ + +‘Mrs Merdle,’ retorted that gentleman, wiping his dull red and yellow +face, ‘I know that as well as you do. If you were not an ornament to +Society, and if I was not a benefactor to Society, you and I would never +have come together. When I say a benefactor to it, I mean a person who +provides it with all sorts of expensive things to eat and drink and look +at. But, to tell me that I am not fit for it after all I have done +for it--after all I have done for it,’ repeated Mr Merdle, with a wild +emphasis that made his wife lift up her eyelids, ‘after all--all!--to +tell me I have no right to mix with it after all, is a pretty reward.’ + +‘I say,’ answered Mrs Merdle composedly, ‘that you ought to make +yourself fit for it by being more degage, and less preoccupied. There is +a positive vulgarity in carrying your business affairs about with you as +you do.’ + +‘How do I carry them about, Mrs Merdle?’ asked Mr Merdle. + +‘How do you carry them about?’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Look at yourself in the +glass.’ + +Mr Merdle involuntarily turned his eyes in the direction of the nearest +mirror, and asked, with a slow determination of his turbid blood to his +temples, whether a man was to be called to account for his digestion? + +‘You have a physician,’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘He does me no good,’ said Mr Merdle. + +Mrs Merdle changed her ground. + +‘Besides,’ said she, ‘your digestion is nonsense. I don’t speak of your +digestion. I speak of your manner.’ + +‘Mrs Merdle,’ returned her husband, ‘I look to you for that. You supply +manner, and I supply money.’ + +‘I don’t expect you,’ said Mrs Merdle, reposing easily among her +cushions, ‘to captivate people. I don’t want you to take any trouble +upon yourself, or to try to be fascinating. I simply request you to care +about nothing--or seem to care about nothing--as everybody else does.’ + +‘Do I ever say I care about anything?’ asked Mr Merdle. + +‘Say? No! Nobody would attend to you if you did. But you show it.’ + +‘Show what? What do I show?’ demanded Mr Merdle hurriedly. + +‘I have already told you. You show that you carry your business cares +an projects about, instead of leaving them in the City, or wherever else +they belong to,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Or seeming to. Seeming would be quite +enough: I ask no more. Whereas you couldn’t be more occupied with your +day’s calculations and combinations than you habitually show yourself to +be, if you were a carpenter.’ + +‘A carpenter!’ repeated Mr Merdle, checking something like a groan. +‘I shouldn’t so much mind being a carpenter, Mrs Merdle.’ + +‘And my complaint is,’ pursued the lady, disregarding the low remark, +‘that it is not the tone of Society, and that you ought to correct +it, Mr Merdle. If you have any doubt of my judgment, ask even Edmund +Sparkler.’ The door of the room had opened, and Mrs Merdle now surveyed +the head of her son through her glass. ‘Edmund; we want you here.’ + +Mr Sparkler, who had merely put in his head and looked round the room +without entering (as if he were searching the house for that young lady +with no nonsense about her), upon this followed up his head with his +body, and stood before them. To whom, in a few easy words adapted to his +capacity, Mrs Merdle stated the question at issue. + +The young gentleman, after anxiously feeling his shirt-collar as if it +were his pulse and he were hypochondriacal, observed, ‘That he had heard +it noticed by fellers.’ + +‘Edmund Sparkler has heard it noticed,’ said Mrs Merdle, with languid +triumph. ‘Why, no doubt everybody has heard it noticed!’ Which in truth +was no unreasonable inference; seeing that Mr Sparkler would probably be +the last person, in any assemblage of the human species, to receive an +impression from anything that passed in his presence. + +‘And Edmund Sparkler will tell you, I dare say,’ said Mrs Merdle, waving +her favourite hand towards her husband, ‘how he has heard it noticed.’ + +‘I couldn’t,’ said Mr Sparkler, after feeling his pulse as before, +‘couldn’t undertake to say what led to it--‘cause memory desperate +loose. But being in company with the brother of a doosed fine gal--well +educated too--with no biggodd nonsense about her--at the period alluded +to--’ + +‘There! Never mind the sister,’ remarked Mrs Merdle, a little +impatiently. ‘What did the brother say?’ + +‘Didn’t say a word, ma’am,’ answered Mr Sparkler. ‘As silent a feller as +myself. Equally hard up for a remark.’ + +‘Somebody said something,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘Never mind who it was.’ + +[‘Assure you I don’t in the least,’ said Mr Sparkler.) + +‘But tell us what it was.’ + +Mr Sparkler referred to his pulse again, and put himself through some +severe mental discipline before he replied: + +‘Fellers referring to my Governor--expression not my own--occasionally +compliment my Governor in a very handsome way on being immensely rich +and knowing--perfect phenomenon of Buyer and Banker and that--but say +the Shop sits heavily on him. Say he carried the Shop about, on his back +rather--like Jew clothesmen with too much business.’ + +‘Which,’ said Mrs Merdle, rising, with her floating drapery about her, +‘is exactly my complaint. Edmund, give me your arm up-stairs.’ + +Mr Merdle, left alone to meditate on a better conformation of himself to +Society, looked out of nine windows in succession, and appeared to +see nine wastes of space. When he had thus entertained himself he went +down-stairs, and looked intently at all the carpets on the ground-floor; +and then came up-stairs again, and looked intently at all the carpets +on the first-floor; as if they were gloomy depths, in unison with his +oppressed soul. Through all the rooms he wandered, as he always did, +like the last person on earth who had any business to approach them. Let +Mrs Merdle announce, with all her might, that she was at Home ever +so many nights in a season, she could not announce more widely and +unmistakably than Mr Merdle did that he was never at home. + +At last he met the chief butler, the sight of which splendid retainer +always finished him. Extinguished by this great creature, he sneaked +to his dressing-room, and there remained shut up until he rode out to +dinner, with Mrs Merdle, in her own handsome chariot. At dinner, he was +envied and flattered as a being of might, was Treasuried, Barred, and +Bishoped, as much as he would; and an hour after midnight came home +alone, and being instantly put out again in his own hall, like a +rushlight, by the chief butler, went sighing to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER 34. A Shoal of Barnacles + + +Mr Henry Gowan and the dog were established frequenters of the cottage, +and the day was fixed for the wedding. There was to be a convocation of +Barnacles on the occasion, in order that that very high and very large +family might shed as much lustre on the marriage as so dim an event was +capable of receiving. + +To have got the whole Barnacle family together would have been +impossible for two reasons. Firstly, because no building could have held +all the members and connections of that illustrious house. Secondly, +because wherever there was a square yard of ground in British occupation +under the sun or moon, with a public post upon it, sticking to that post +was a Barnacle. No intrepid navigator could plant a flag-staff upon any +spot of earth, and take possession of it in the British name, but +to that spot of earth, so soon as the discovery was known, the +Circumlocution Office sent out a Barnacle and a despatch-box. Thus the +Barnacles were all over the world, in every direction--despatch-boxing +the compass. + +But, while the so-potent art of Prospero himself would have failed in +summoning the Barnacles from every speck of ocean and dry land on +which there was nothing (except mischief) to be done and anything to be +pocketed, it was perfectly feasible to assemble a good many Barnacles. +This Mrs Gowan applied herself to do; calling on Mr Meagles frequently +with new additions to the list, and holding conferences with that +gentleman when he was not engaged (as he generally was at this period) +in examining and paying the debts of his future son-in-law, in the +apartment of scales and scoop. + +One marriage guest there was, in reference to whose presence Mr Meagles +felt a nearer interest and concern than in the attendance of the most +elevated Barnacle expected; though he was far from insensible of the +honour of having such company. This guest was Clennam. But Clennam had +made a promise he held sacred, among the trees that summer night, and, +in the chivalry of his heart, regarded it as binding him to many implied +obligations. In forgetfulness of himself, and delicate service to her on +all occasions, he was never to fail; to begin it, he answered Mr Meagles +cheerfully, ‘I shall come, of course.’ + +His partner, Daniel Doyce, was something of a stumbling-block in Mr +Meagles’s way, the worthy gentleman being not at all clear in his own +anxious mind but that the mingling of Daniel with official Barnacleism +might produce some explosive combination, even at a marriage breakfast. +The national offender, however, lightened him of his uneasiness by +coming down to Twickenham to represent that he begged, with the freedom +of an old friend, and as a favour to one, that he might not be invited. +‘For,’ said he, ‘as my business with this set of gentlemen was to do a +public duty and a public service, and as their business with me was to +prevent it by wearing my soul out, I think we had better not eat and +drink together with a show of being of one mind.’ Mr Meagles was much +amused by his friend’s oddity; and patronised him with a more protecting +air of allowance than usual, when he rejoined: ‘Well, well, Dan, you +shall have your own crotchety way.’ + +To Mr Henry Gowan, as the time approached, Clennam tried to convey +by all quiet and unpretending means, that he was frankly and +disinterestedly desirous of tendering him any friendship he would +accept. Mr Gowan treated him in return with his usual ease, and with his +usual show of confidence, which was no confidence at all. + +‘You see, Clennam,’ he happened to remark in the course of conversation +one day, when they were walking near the Cottage within a week of the +marriage, ‘I am a disappointed man. That you know already.’ + +‘Upon my word,’ said Clennam, a little embarrassed, ‘I scarcely know +how.’ + +‘Why,’ returned Gowan, ‘I belong to a clan, or a clique, or a family, or +a connection, or whatever you like to call it, that might have provided +for me in any one of fifty ways, and that took it into its head not to +do it at all. So here I am, a poor devil of an artist.’ + +Clennam was beginning, ‘But on the other hand--’ when Gowan took him up. + +‘Yes, yes, I know. I have the good fortune of being beloved by a +beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.’ + +[‘Is there much of it?’ Clennam thought. And as he thought it, felt +ashamed of himself.) + +‘And of finding a father-in-law who is a capital fellow and a liberal +good old boy. Still, I had other prospects washed and combed into my +childish head when it was washed and combed for me, and I took them to +a public school when I washed and combed it for myself, and I am here +without them, and thus I am a disappointed man.’ + +Clennam thought (and as he thought it, again felt ashamed of himself), +was this notion of being disappointed in life, an assertion of station +which the bridegroom brought into the family as his property, having +already carried it detrimentally into his pursuit? And was it a hopeful +or a promising thing anywhere? + +‘Not bitterly disappointed, I think,’ he said aloud. + +‘Hang it, no; not bitterly,’ laughed Gowan. ‘My people are not worth +that--though they are charming fellows, and I have the greatest +affection for them. Besides, it’s pleasant to show them that I can do +without them, and that they may all go to the Devil. And besides, again, +most men are disappointed in life, somehow or other, and influenced by +their disappointment. But it’s a dear good world, and I love it!’ + +‘It lies fair before you now,’ said Arthur. + +‘Fair as this summer river,’ cried the other, with enthusiasm, ‘and by +Jove I glow with admiration of it, and with ardour to run a race in it. +It’s the best of old worlds! And my calling! The best of old callings, +isn’t it?’ + +‘Full of interest and ambition, I conceive,’ said Clennam. + +‘And imposition,’ added Gowan, laughing; ‘we won’t leave out the +imposition. I hope I may not break down in that; but there, my being +a disappointed man may show itself. I may not be able to face it out +gravely enough. Between you and me, I think there is some danger of my +being just enough soured not to be able to do that.’ + +‘To do what?’ asked Clennam. + +‘To keep it up. To help myself in my turn, as the man before me helps +himself in his, and pass the bottle of smoke. To keep up the pretence +as to labour, and study, and patience, and being devoted to my art, and +giving up many solitary days to it, and abandoning many pleasures for +it, and living in it, and all the rest of it--in short, to pass the +bottle of smoke according to rule.’ + +‘But it is well for a man to respect his own vocation, whatever it is; +and to think himself bound to uphold it, and to claim for it the respect +it deserves; is it not?’ Arthur reasoned. ‘And your vocation, Gowan, +may really demand this suit and service. I confess I should have thought +that all Art did.’ + +‘What a good fellow you are, Clennam!’ exclaimed the other, stopping +to look at him, as if with irrepressible admiration. ‘What a capital +fellow! _You_ have never been disappointed. That’s easy to see.’ + +It would have been so cruel if he had meant it, that Clennam firmly +resolved to believe he did not mean it. Gowan, without pausing, laid his +hand upon his shoulder, and laughingly and lightly went on: + +‘Clennam, I don’t like to dispel your generous visions, and I would give +any money (if I had any), to live in such a rose-coloured mist. But what +I do in my trade, I do to sell. What all we fellows do, we do to +sell. If we didn’t want to sell it for the most we can get for it, we +shouldn’t do it. Being work, it has to be done; but it’s easily enough +done. All the rest is hocus-pocus. Now here’s one of the advantages, or +disadvantages, of knowing a disappointed man. You hear the truth.’ + +Whatever he had heard, and whether it deserved that name or another, it +sank into Clennam’s mind. It so took root there, that he began to fear +Henry Gowan would always be a trouble to him, and that so far he had +gained little or nothing from the dismissal of Nobody, with all his +inconsistencies, anxieties, and contradictions. He found a contest still +always going on in his breast between his promise to keep Gowan in +none but good aspects before the mind of Mr Meagles, and his enforced +observation of Gowan in aspects that had no good in them. Nor could he +quite support his own conscientious nature against misgivings that he +distorted and discoloured himself, by reminding himself that he never +sought those discoveries, and that he would have avoided them with +willingness and great relief. For he never could forget what he had +been; and he knew that he had once disliked Gowan for no better reason +than that he had come in his way. + +Harassed by these thoughts, he now began to wish the marriage over, +Gowan and his young wife gone, and himself left to fulfil his promise, +and discharge the generous function he had accepted. This last week was, +in truth, an uneasy interval for the whole house. Before Pet, or before +Gowan, Mr Meagles was radiant; but Clennam had more than once found him +alone, with his view of the scales and scoop much blurred, and had often +seen him look after the lovers, in the garden or elsewhere when he was +not seen by them, with the old clouded face on which Gowan had fallen +like a shadow. In the arrangement of the house for the great occasion, +many little reminders of the old travels of the father and mother +and daughter had to be disturbed and passed from hand to hand; and +sometimes, in the midst of these mute witnesses, to the life they had +had together, even Pet herself would yield to lamenting and weeping. +Mrs Meagles, the blithest and busiest of mothers, went about singing +and cheering everybody; but she, honest soul, had her flights into store +rooms, where she would cry until her eyes were red, and would then +come out, attributing that appearance to pickled onions and pepper, and +singing clearer than ever. Mrs Tickit, finding no balsam for a wounded +mind in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, suffered greatly from low spirits, +and from moving recollections of Minnie’s infancy. When the latter was +powerful with her, she usually sent up secret messages importing +that she was not in parlour condition as to her attire, and that she +solicited a sight of ‘her child’ in the kitchen; there, she would bless +her child’s face, and bless her child’s heart, and hug her child, in a +medley of tears and congratulations, chopping-boards, rolling-pins, and +pie-crust, with the tenderness of an old attached servant, which is a +very pretty tenderness indeed. + +But all days come that are to be; and the marriage-day was to be, and it +came; and with it came all the Barnacles who were bidden to the feast. + +There was Mr Tite Barnacle, from the Circumlocution Office, and Mews +Street, Grosvenor Square, with the expensive Mrs Tite Barnacle _nee_ +Stiltstalking, who made the Quarter Days so long in coming, and the +three expensive Miss Tite Barnacles, double-loaded with accomplishments +and ready to go off, and yet not going off with the sharpness of flash +and bang that might have been expected, but rather hanging fire. There +was Barnacle junior, also from the Circumlocution Office, leaving the +Tonnage of the country, which he was somehow supposed to take under +his protection, to look after itself, and, sooth to say, not at all +impairing the efficiency of its protection by leaving it alone. There +was the engaging Young Barnacle, deriving from the sprightly side of the +family, also from the Circumlocution Office, gaily and agreeably helping +the occasion along, and treating it, in his sparkling way, as one of the +official forms and fees of the Church Department of How not to do it. +There were three other Young Barnacles from three other offices, insipid +to all the senses, and terribly in want of seasoning, doing the marriage +as they would have ‘done’ the Nile, Old Rome, the new singer, or +Jerusalem. + +But there was greater game than this. There was Lord Decimus Tite +Barnacle himself, in the odour of Circumlocution--with the very smell of +Despatch-Boxes upon him. Yes, there was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, who +had risen to official heights on the wings of one indignant idea, and +that was, My Lords, that I am yet to be told that it behoves a Minister +of this free country to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the +charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to +damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. That was, in other +words, that this great statesman was always yet to be told that it +behoved the Pilot of the ship to do anything but prosper in the private +loaf and fish trade ashore, the crew being able, by dint of hard +pumping, to keep the ship above water without him. On this sublime +discovery in the great art How not to do it, Lord Decimus had long +sustained the highest glory of the Barnacle family; and let any +ill-advised member of either House but try How to do it by bringing in +a Bill to do it, that Bill was as good as dead and buried when Lord +Decimus Tite Barnacle rose up in his place and solemnly said, soaring +into indignant majesty as the Circumlocution cheering soared around +him, that he was yet to be told, My Lords, that it behoved him as the +Minister of this free country, to set bounds to the philanthropy, +to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the +enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. The +discovery of this Behoving Machine was the discovery of the political +perpetual motion. It never wore out, though it was always going round +and round in all the State Departments. + +And there, with his noble friend and relative Lord Decimus, was +William Barnacle, who had made the ever-famous coalition with Tudor +Stiltstalking, and who always kept ready his own particular recipe for +How not to do it; sometimes tapping the Speaker, and drawing it fresh +out of him, with a ‘First, I will beg you, sir, to inform the House what +Precedent we have for the course into which the honourable gentleman +would precipitate us;’ sometimes asking the honourable gentleman to +favour him with his own version of the Precedent; sometimes telling +the honourable gentleman that he (William Barnacle) would search for a +Precedent; and oftentimes crushing the honourable gentleman flat on +the spot by telling him there was no Precedent. But Precedent and +Precipitate were, under all circumstances, the well-matched pair of +battle-horses of this able Circumlocutionist. No matter that the unhappy +honourable gentleman had been trying in vain, for twenty-five years, to +precipitate William Barnacle into this--William Barnacle still put it to +the House, and (at second-hand or so) to the country, whether he was to +be precipitated into this. No matter that it was utterly irreconcilable +with the nature of things and course of events that the wretched +honourable gentleman could possibly produce a Precedent for +this--William Barnacle would nevertheless thank the honourable gentleman +for that ironical cheer, and would close with him upon that issue, and +would tell him to his teeth that there Was NO Precedent for this. It +might perhaps have been objected that the William Barnacle wisdom was +not high wisdom or the earth it bamboozled would never have been made, +or, if made in a rash mistake, would have remained blank mud. But +Precedent and Precipitate together frightened all objection out of most +people. + +And there, too, was another Barnacle, a lively one, who had leaped +through twenty places in quick succession, and was always in two or +three at once, and who was the much-respected inventor of an art +which he practised with great success and admiration in all Barnacle +Governments. This was, when he was asked a Parliamentary question on +any one topic, to return an answer on any other. It had done immense +service, and brought him into high esteem with the Circumlocution +Office. + +And there, too, was a sprinkling of less distinguished Parliamentary +Barnacles, who had not as yet got anything snug, and were going through +their probation to prove their worthiness. These Barnacles perched upon +staircases and hid in passages, waiting their orders to make houses +or not to make houses; and they did all their hearing, and ohing, and +cheering, and barking, under directions from the heads of the family; +and they put dummy motions on the paper in the way of other men’s +motions; and they stalled disagreeable subjects off until late in the +night and late in the session, and then with virtuous patriotism cried +out that it was too late; and they went down into the country, whenever +they were sent, and swore that Lord Decimus had revived trade from a +swoon, and commerce from a fit, and had doubled the harvest of corn, +quadrupled the harvest of hay, and prevented no end of gold from flying +out of the Bank. Also these Barnacles were dealt, by the heads of the +family, like so many cards below the court-cards, to public meetings and +dinners; where they bore testimony to all sorts of services on the part +of their noble and honourable relatives, and buttered the Barnacles on +all sorts of toasts. And they stood, under similar orders, at all sorts +of elections; and they turned out of their own seats, on the shortest +notice and the most unreasonable terms, to let in other men; and they +fetched and carried, and toadied and jobbed, and corrupted, and ate +heaps of dirt, and were indefatigable in the public service. And there +was not a list, in all the Circumlocution Office, of places that might +fall vacant anywhere within half a century, from a lord of the Treasury +to a Chinese consul, and up again to a governor-general of India, but as +applicants for such places, the names of some or of every one of these +hungry and adhesive Barnacles were down. + +It was necessarily but a sprinkling of any class of Barnacles that +attended the marriage, for there were not two score in all, and what +is that subtracted from Legion! But the sprinkling was a swarm in the +Twickenham cottage, and filled it. A Barnacle (assisted by a Barnacle) +married the happy pair, and it behoved Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle +himself to conduct Mrs Meagles to breakfast. + +The entertainment was not as agreeable and natural as it might have +been. Mr Meagles, hove down by his good company while he highly +appreciated it, was not himself. Mrs Gowan was herself, and that did not +improve him. The fiction that it was not Mr Meagles who had stood in the +way, but that it was the Family greatness, and that the Family greatness +had made a concession, and there was now a soothing unanimity, pervaded +the affair, though it was never openly expressed. Then the Barnacles +felt that they for their parts would have done with the Meagleses when +the present patronising occasion was over; and the Meagleses felt the +same for their parts. Then Gowan asserting his rights as a disappointed +man who had his grudge against the family, and who, perhaps, had allowed +his mother to have them there, as much in the hope it might give them +some annoyance as with any other benevolent object, aired his pencil and +his poverty ostentatiously before them, and told them he hoped in time +to settle a crust of bread and cheese on his wife, and that he begged +such of them as (more fortunate than himself) came in for any good +thing, and could buy a picture, to please to remember the poor painter. +Then Lord Decimus, who was a wonder on his own Parliamentary pedestal, +turned out to be the windiest creature here: proposing happiness to the +bride and bridegroom in a series of platitudes that would have made the +hair of any sincere disciple and believer stand on end; and trotting, +with the complacency of an idiotic elephant, among howling labyrinths of +sentences which he seemed to take for high roads, and never so much +as wanted to get out of. Then Mr Tite Barnacle could not but feel that +there was a person in company, who would have disturbed his life-long +sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence in full official character, if such +disturbance had been possible: while Barnacle junior did, with +indignation, communicate to two vapid gentlemen, his relatives, that +there was a feller here, look here, who had come to our Department +without an appointment and said he wanted to know, you know; and that, +look here, if he was to break out now, as he might you know (for you +never could tell what an ungentlemanly Radical of that sort would be up +to next), and was to say, look here, that he wanted to know this moment, +you know, that would be jolly; wouldn’t it? + +The pleasantest part of the occasion by far, to Clennam, was the +painfullest. When Mr and Mrs Meagles at last hung about Pet in the room +with the two pictures (where the company were not), before going with +her to the threshold which she could never recross to be the old Pet and +the old delight, nothing could be more natural and simple than the three +were. Gowan himself was touched, and answered Mr Meagles’s ‘O Gowan, +take care of her, take care of her!’ with an earnest ‘Don’t be so +broken-hearted, sir. By Heaven I will!’ + +And so, with the last sobs and last loving words, and a last look to +Clennam of confidence in his promise, Pet fell back in the carriage, +and her husband waved his hand, and they were away for Dover; though not +until the faithful Mrs Tickit, in her silk gown and jet black curls, had +rushed out from some hiding-place, and thrown both her shoes after +the carriage: an apparition which occasioned great surprise to the +distinguished company at the windows. + +The said company being now relieved from further attendance, and the +chief Barnacles being rather hurried (for they had it in hand just +then to send a mail or two which was in danger of going straight to its +destination, beating about the seas like the Flying Dutchman, and to +arrange with complexity for the stoppage of a good deal of important +business otherwise in peril of being done), went their several ways; +with all affability conveying to Mr and Mrs Meagles that general +assurance that what they had been doing there, they had been doing at a +sacrifice for Mr and Mrs Meagles’s good, which they always conveyed to +Mr John Bull in their official condescension to that most unfortunate +creature. + +A miserable blank remained in the house and in the hearts of the father +and mother and Clennam. Mr Meagles called only one remembrance to his +aid, that really did him good. + +‘It’s very gratifying, Arthur,’ he said, ‘after all, to look back upon.’ + +‘The past?’ said Clennam. + +‘Yes--but I mean the company.’ + +It had made him much more low and unhappy at the time, but now it really +did him good. ‘It’s very gratifying,’ he said, often repeating the +remark in the course of the evening. ‘Such high company!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand + + +It was at this time that Mr Pancks, in discharge of his compact with +Clennam, revealed to him the whole of his gipsy story, and told him +Little Dorrit’s fortune. Her father was heir-at-law to a great estate +that had long lain unknown of, unclaimed, and accumulating. His right +was now clear, nothing interposed in his way, the Marshalsea gates stood +open, the Marshalsea walls were down, a few flourishes of his pen, and +he was extremely rich. + +In his tracking out of the claim to its complete establishment, Mr +Pancks had shown a sagacity that nothing could baffle, and a patience +and secrecy that nothing could tire. ‘I little thought, sir,’ said +Pancks, ‘when you and I crossed Smithfield that night, and I told you +what sort of a Collector I was, that this would come of it. I little +thought, sir, when I told you you were not of the Clennams of +Cornwall, that I was ever going to tell you who were of the Dorrits of +Dorsetshire.’ He then went on to detail. How, having that name recorded +in his note-book, he was first attracted by the name alone. How, having +often found two exactly similar names, even belonging to the same place, +to involve no traceable consanguinity, near or distant, he did not at +first give much heed to this, except in the way of speculation as to +what a surprising change would be made in the condition of a little +seamstress, if she could be shown to have any interest in so large a +property. How he rather supposed himself to have pursued the idea into +its next degree, because there was something uncommon in the quiet +little seamstress, which pleased him and provoked his curiosity. +How he had felt his way inch by inch, and ‘Moled it out, sir’ (that was +Mr Pancks’s expression), grain by grain. How, in the beginning of +the labour described by this new verb, and to render which the more +expressive Mr Pancks shut his eyes in pronouncing it and shook his hair +over them, he had alternated from sudden lights and hopes to sudden +darkness and no hopes, and back again, and back again. How he had made +acquaintances in the Prison, expressly that he might come and go there +as all other comers and goers did; and how his first ray of light was +unconsciously given him by Mr Dorrit himself and by his son; to both of +whom he easily became known; with both of whom he talked much, casually +[‘but always Moleing you’ll observe,’ said Mr Pancks): and from whom he +derived, without being at all suspected, two or three little points of +family history which, as he began to hold clues of his own, suggested +others. How it had at length become plain to Mr Pancks that he had made +a real discovery of the heir-at-law to a great fortune, and that his +discovery had but to be ripened to legal fulness and perfection. How +he had, thereupon, sworn his landlord, Mr Rugg, to secrecy in a solemn +manner, and taken him into Moleing partnership. How they had employed +John Chivery as their sole clerk and agent, seeing to whom he was +devoted. And how, until the present hour, when authorities mighty in the +Bank and learned in the law declared their successful labours ended, +they had confided in no other human being. + +‘So if the whole thing had broken down, sir,’ concluded Pancks, ‘at the +very last, say the day before the other day when I showed you our papers +in the Prison yard, or say that very day, nobody but ourselves would +have been cruelly disappointed, or a penny the worse.’ + +Clennam, who had been almost incessantly shaking hands with him +throughout the narrative, was reminded by this to say, in an amazement +which even the preparation he had had for the main disclosure smoothed +down, ‘My dear Mr Pancks, this must have cost you a great sum of money.’ + +‘Pretty well, sir,’ said the triumphant Pancks. ‘No trifle, though we +did it as cheap as it could be done. And the outlay was a difficulty, +let me tell you.’ + +‘A difficulty!’ repeated Clennam. ‘But the difficulties you have so +wonderfully conquered in the whole business!’ shaking his hand again. + +‘I’ll tell you how I did it,’ said the delighted Pancks, putting his +hair into a condition as elevated as himself. ‘First, I spent all I had +of my own. That wasn’t much.’ + +‘I am sorry for it,’ said Clennam: ‘not that it matters now, though. +Then, what did you do?’ + +‘Then,’ answered Pancks, ‘I borrowed a sum of my proprietor.’ + +‘Of Mr Casby?’ said Clennam. ‘He’s a fine old fellow.’ + +‘Noble old boy; an’t he?’ said Mr Pancks, entering on a series of the +dryest snorts. ‘Generous old buck. Confiding old boy. Philanthropic old +buck. Benevolent old boy! Twenty per cent. I engaged to pay him, sir. +But we never do business for less at our shop.’ + +Arthur felt an awkward consciousness of having, in his exultant +condition, been a little premature. + +‘I said to that boiling-over old Christian,’ Mr Pancks pursued, +appearing greatly to relish this descriptive epithet, ‘that I had got a +little project on hand; a hopeful one; I told him a hopeful one; which +wanted a certain small capital. I proposed to him to lend me the +money on my note. Which he did, at twenty; sticking the twenty on in a +business-like way, and putting it into the note, to look like a part of +the principal. If I had broken down after that, I should have been his +grubber for the next seven years at half wages and double grind. But +he’s a perfect Patriarch; and it would do a man good to serve him on +such terms--on any terms.’ + +Arthur for his life could not have said with confidence whether Pancks +really thought so or not. + +‘When that was gone, sir,’ resumed Pancks, ‘and it did go, though I +dribbled it out like so much blood, I had taken Mr Rugg into the secret. +I proposed to borrow of Mr Rugg (or of Miss Rugg; it’s the same thing; +she made a little money by a speculation in the Common Pleas once). He +lent it at ten, and thought that pretty high. But Mr Rugg’s a red-haired +man, sir, and gets his hair cut. And as to the crown of his hat, it’s +high. And as to the brim of his hat, it’s narrow. And there’s no more +benevolence bubbling out of him, than out of a ninepin.’ + +‘Your own recompense for all this, Mr Pancks,’ said Clennam, ‘ought to +be a large one.’ + +‘I don’t mistrust getting it, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I have made no +bargain. I owed you one on that score; now I have paid it. Money out of +pocket made good, time fairly allowed for, and Mr Rugg’s bill settled, +a thousand pounds would be a fortune to me. That matter I place in your +hands. I authorize you now to break all this to the family in any way +you think best. Miss Amy Dorrit will be with Mrs Finching this morning. +The sooner done the better. Can’t be done too soon.’ + +This conversation took place in Clennam’s bed-room, while he was yet in +bed. For Mr Pancks had knocked up the house and made his way in, very +early in the morning; and, without once sitting down or standing still, +had delivered himself of the whole of his details (illustrated with a +variety of documents) at the bedside. He now said he would ‘go and look +up Mr Rugg’, from whom his excited state of mind appeared to require +another back; and bundling up his papers, and exchanging one more hearty +shake of the hand with Clennam, he went at full speed down-stairs, and +steamed off. + +Clennam, of course, resolved to go direct to Mr Casby’s. He dressed +and got out so quickly that he found himself at the corner of the +patriarchal street nearly an hour before her time; but he was not sorry +to have the opportunity of calming himself with a leisurely walk. + +When he returned to the street, and had knocked at the bright brass +knocker, he was informed that she had come, and was shown up-stairs to +Flora’s breakfast-room. Little Dorrit was not there herself, but Flora +was, and testified the greatest amazement at seeing him. + +‘Good gracious, Arthur--Doyce and Clennam!’ cried that lady, ‘who would +have ever thought of seeing such a sight as this and pray excuse a +wrapper for upon my word I really never and a faded check too which +is worse but our little friend is making me, not that I need mind +mentioning it to you for you must know that there are such things a +skirt, and having arranged that a trying on should take place after +breakfast is the reason though I wish not so badly starched.’ + +‘I ought to make an apology,’ said Arthur, ‘for so early and abrupt a +visit; but you will excuse it when I tell you the cause.’ + +‘In times for ever fled Arthur,’ returned Mrs Finching, ‘pray excuse +me Doyce and Clennam infinitely more correct and though unquestionably +distant still ‘tis distance lends enchantment to the view, at least I +don’t mean that and if I did I suppose it would depend considerably on +the nature of the view, but I’m running on again and you put it all out +of my head.’ + +She glanced at him tenderly, and resumed: + +‘In times for ever fled I was going to say it would have sounded +strange indeed for Arthur Clennam--Doyce and Clennam naturally quite +different--to make apologies for coming here at any time, but that is +past and what is past can never be recalled except in his own case as +poor Mr F. said when he was in spirits Cucumber and therefore never ate +it.’ + +She was making the tea when Arthur came in, and now hastily finished +that operation. + +‘Papa,’ she said, all mystery and whisper, as she shut down the tea-pot +lid, ‘is sitting prosingly breaking his new laid egg in the back parlour +over the City article exactly like the Woodpecker Tapping and need never +know that you are here, and our little friend you are well aware may be +fully trusted when she comes down from cutting out on the large table +overhead.’ + +Arthur then told her, in the fewest words, that it was their little +friend he came to see; and what he had to announce to their little +friend. At which astounding intelligence, Flora clasped her hands, +fell into a tremble, and shed tears of sympathy and pleasure, like the +good-natured creature she really was. + +‘For gracious sake let me get out of the way first,’ said Flora, putting +her hands to her ears and moving towards the door, ‘or I know I shall +go off dead and screaming and make everybody worse, and the dear little +thing only this morning looking so nice and neat and good and yet so +poor and now a fortune is she really and deserves it too! and might I +mention it to Mr F.’s Aunt Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once or +if objectionable not on any account.’ + +Arthur nodded his free permission, since Flora shut out all verbal +communication. Flora nodded in return to thank him, and hurried out of +the room. + +Little Dorrit’s step was already on the stairs, and in another moment +she was at the door. Do what he could to compose his face, he could not +convey so much of an ordinary expression into it, but that the moment +she saw it she dropped her work, and cried, ‘Mr Clennam! What’s the +matter?’ + +‘Nothing, nothing. That is, no misfortune has happened. I have come +to tell you something, but it is a piece of great good-fortune.’ + +‘Good-fortune?’ + +‘Wonderful fortune!’ + +They stood in a window, and her eyes, full of light, were fixed upon his +face. He put an arm about her, seeing her likely to sink down. She put +a hand upon that arm, partly to rest upon it, and partly so to preserve +their relative positions as that her intent look at him should be shaken +by no change of attitude in either of them. Her lips seemed to repeat +‘Wonderful fortune?’ He repeated it again, aloud. + +‘Dear Little Dorrit! Your father.’ + +The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights and shoots +of expression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Her +breath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast. He would have clasped +the little figure closer, but he saw that the eyes appealed to him not +to be moved. + +‘Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we must +go to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free within +a few days. Your father will be free within a few hours. Remember we +must go to him from here, to tell him of it!’ + +That brought her back. Her eyes were closing, but they opened again. + +‘This is not all the good-fortune. This is not all the wonderful +good-fortune, my dear Little Dorrit. Shall I tell you more?’ + +Her lips shaped ‘Yes.’ + +‘Your father will be no beggar when he is free. He will want for +nothing. Shall I tell you more? Remember! He knows nothing of it; we +must go to him, from here, to tell him of it!’ + +She seemed to entreat him for a little time. He held her in his arm, +and, after a pause, bent down his ear to listen. + +‘Did you ask me to go on?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘He will be a rich man. He is a rich man. A great sum of money +is waiting to be paid over to him as his inheritance; you are all +henceforth very wealthy. Bravest and best of children, I thank Heaven +that you are rewarded!’ + +As he kissed her, she turned her head towards his shoulder, and raised +her arm towards his neck; cried out ‘Father! Father! Father!’ and +swooned away. + +Upon which Flora returned to take care of her, and hovered about her on +a sofa, intermingling kind offices and incoherent scraps of conversation +in a manner so confounding, that whether she pressed the Marshalsea to +take a spoonful of unclaimed dividends, for it would do her good; +or whether she congratulated Little Dorrit’s father on coming into +possession of a hundred thousand smelling-bottles; or whether she +explained that she put seventy-five thousand drops of spirits of +lavender on fifty thousand pounds of lump sugar, and that she entreated +Little Dorrit to take that gentle restorative; or whether she bathed the +foreheads of Doyce and Clennam in vinegar, and gave the late Mr F. more +air; no one with any sense of responsibility could have undertaken to +decide. A tributary stream of confusion, moreover, poured in from an +adjoining bedroom, where Mr F.’s Aunt appeared, from the sound of her +voice, to be in a horizontal posture, awaiting her breakfast; and from +which bower that inexorable lady snapped off short taunts, whenever she +could get a hearing, as, ‘Don’t believe it’s his doing!’ and ‘He needn’t +take no credit to himself for it!’ and ‘It’ll be long enough, I expect, +afore he’ll give up any of his own money!’ all designed to disparage +Clennam’s share in the discovery, and to relieve those inveterate +feelings with which Mr F.’s Aunt regarded him. + +But Little Dorrit’s solicitude to get to her father, and to carry the +joyful tidings to him, and not to leave him in his jail a moment with +this happiness in store for him and still unknown to him, did more for +her speedy restoration than all the skill and attention on earth could +have done. ‘Come with me to my dear father. Pray come and tell my dear +father!’ were the first words she said. Her father, her father. She +spoke of nothing but him, thought of nothing but him. Kneeling down and +pouring out her thankfulness with uplifted hands, her thanks were for +her father. + +Flora’s tenderness was quite overcome by this, and she launched out +among the cups and saucers into a wonderful flow of tears and speech. + +‘I declare,’ she sobbed, ‘I never was so cut up since your mama and my +papa not Doyce and Clennam for this once but give the precious little +thing a cup of tea and make her put it to her lips at least pray Arthur +do, not even Mr F.’s last illness for that was of another kind and gout +is not a child’s affection though very painful for all parties and Mr +F. a martyr with his leg upon a rest and the wine trade in itself +inflammatory for they will do it more or less among themselves and who +can wonder, it seems like a dream I am sure to think of nothing at all +this morning and now Mines of money is it really, but you must know my +darling love because you never will be strong enough to tell him all +about it upon teaspoons, mightn’t it be even best to try the directions +of my own medical man for though the flavour is anything but agreeable +still I force myself to do it as a prescription and find the benefit, +you’d rather not why no my dear I’d rather not but still I do it as a +duty, everybody will congratulate you some in earnest and some not and +many will congratulate you with all their hearts but none more so I +do assure you from the bottom of my own I do myself though sensible of +blundering and being stupid, and will be judged by Arthur not Doyce and +Clennam for this once so good-bye darling and God bless you and may you +be very happy and excuse the liberty, vowing that the dress shall never +be finished by anybody else but shall be laid by for a keepsake just +as it is and called Little Dorrit though why that strangest of +denominations at any time I never did myself and now I never shall!’ + + +Thus Flora, in taking leave of her favourite. Little Dorrit thanked her, +and embraced her, over and over again; and finally came out of the house +with Clennam, and took coach for the Marshalsea. + +It was a strangely unreal ride through the old squalid streets, with a +sensation of being raised out of them into an airy world of wealth +and grandeur. When Arthur told her that she would soon ride in her +own carriage through very different scenes, when all the familiar +experiences would have vanished away, she looked frightened. But when +he substituted her father for herself, and told her how he would ride in +his carriage, and how great and grand he would be, her tears of joy +and innocent pride fell fast. Seeing that the happiness her mind could +realise was all shining upon him, Arthur kept that single figure before +her; and so they rode brightly through the poor streets in the prison +neighbourhood to carry him the great news. + +When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw +something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood +looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he +perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or +three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently +joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the +midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father +was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in +the remotest room in the College. + +Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He +was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight +by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and +he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon +the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing +Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look +in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below, +struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his +newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth +a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand, +he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his +daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his +shoulder, and looked attentively in her face. + +‘Father! I have been made so happy this morning!’ + +‘You have been made so happy, my dear?’ + +‘By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful +intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and +gentleness, prepared me for it, father--prepared me for it, father--I +think I could not have borne it.’ + +Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face. +He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam. + +‘Compose yourself, sir,’ said Clennam, ‘and take a little time to think. +To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have +all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They +are rare, but not at an end.’ + +‘Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for--’ He touched himself upon +the breast, instead of saying ‘me.’ + +‘No,’ returned Clennam. + +‘What surprise,’ he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and +there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his +glasses exactly level on the table: ‘what such surprise can be in store +for me?’ + +‘Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise +would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be +afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.’ + +He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to +change into a very old haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall +beyond the window, and on the spikes at top. He slowly stretched out the +hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall. + +‘It is down,’ said Clennam. ‘Gone!’ + +He remained in the same attitude, looking steadfastly at him. + +‘And in its place,’ said Clennam, slowly and distinctly, ‘are the means +to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr +Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will +be free, and highly prosperous. I congratulate you with all my soul on +this change of fortune, and on the happy future into which you are soon +to carry the treasure you have been blest with here--the best of all the +riches you can have elsewhere--the treasure at your side.’ + +With those words, he pressed his hand and released it; and his daughter, +laying her face against his, encircled him in the hour of his prosperity +with her arms, as she had in the long years of his adversity encircled +him with her love and toil and truth; and poured out her full heart in +gratitude, hope, joy, blissful ecstasy, and all for him. + +‘I shall see him as I never saw him yet. I shall see my dear love, with +the dark cloud cleared away. I shall see him, as my poor mother saw him +long ago. O my dear, my dear! O father, father! O thank God, thank God!’ + +He yielded himself to her kisses and caresses, but did not return them, +except that he put an arm about her. Neither did he say one word. His +steadfast look was now divided between her and Clennam, and he began to +shake as if he were very cold. Explaining to Little Dorrit that he would +run to the coffee-house for a bottle of wine, Arthur fetched it with all +the haste he could use. While it was being brought from the cellar to +the bar, a number of excited people asked him what had happened; when he +hurriedly informed them that Mr Dorrit had succeeded to a fortune. + +On coming back with the wine in his hand, he found that she had placed +her father in his easy chair, and had loosened his shirt and neckcloth. +They filled a tumbler with wine, and held it to his lips. When he had +swallowed a little, he took the glass himself and emptied it. Soon +after that, he leaned back in his chair and cried, with his handkerchief +before his face. + +After this had lasted a while Clennam thought it a good season for +diverting his attention from the main surprise, by relating its details. +Slowly, therefore, and in a quiet tone of voice, he explained them as +best he could, and enlarged on the nature of Pancks’s service. + +‘He shall be--ha--he shall be handsomely recompensed, sir,’ said +the Father, starting up and moving hurriedly about the room. ‘Assure +yourself, Mr Clennam, that everybody concerned shall be--ha--shall +be nobly rewarded. No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an +unsatisfied claim against me. I shall repay the--hum--the advances I +have had from you, sir, with peculiar pleasure. I beg to be informed at +your earliest convenience, what advances you have made my son.’ + +He had no purpose in going about the room, but he was not still a +moment. + +‘Everybody,’ he said, ‘shall be remembered. I will not go away from +here in anybody’s debt. All the people who have been--ha--well behaved +towards myself and my family, shall be rewarded. Chivery shall be +rewarded. Young John shall be rewarded. I particularly wish, and intend, +to act munificently, Mr Clennam.’ + +‘Will you allow me,’ said Arthur, laying his purse on the table, ‘to +supply any present contingencies, Mr Dorrit? I thought it best to bring +a sum of money for the purpose.’ + +‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I accept with readiness, at the present +moment, what I could not an hour ago have conscientiously taken. I am +obliged to you for the temporary accommodation. Exceedingly temporary, +but well timed--well timed.’ His hand had closed upon the money, and +he carried it about with him. ‘Be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to +those former advances to which I have already referred; being careful, +if you please, not to omit advances made to my son. A mere verbal +statement of the gross amount is all I shall--ha--all I shall require.’ + +His eye fell upon his daughter at this point, and he stopped for a +moment to kiss her, and to pat her head. + +‘It will be necessary to find a milliner, my love, and to make a speedy +and complete change in your very plain dress. Something must be done +with Maggy too, who at present is--ha--barely respectable, barely +respectable. And your sister, Amy, and your brother. And _my_ brother, +your uncle--poor soul, I trust this will rouse him--messengers must be +despatched to fetch them. They must be informed of this. We must break +it to them cautiously, but they must be informed directly. We owe it +as a duty to them and to ourselves, from this moment, not to let +them--hum--not to let them do anything.’ + +This was the first intimation he had ever given, that he was privy to +the fact that they did something for a livelihood. + +He was still jogging about the room, with the purse clutched in his +hand, when a great cheering arose in the yard. ‘The news has spread +already,’ said Clennam, looking down from the window. ‘Will you show +yourself to them, Mr Dorrit? They are very earnest, and they evidently +wish it.’ + +‘I--hum--ha--I confess I could have desired, Amy my dear,’ he said, +jogging about in a more feverish flutter than before, ‘to have made some +change in my dress first, and to have bought a--hum--a watch and chain. +But if it must be done as it is, it--ha--it must be done. Fasten the +collar of my shirt, my dear. Mr Clennam, would you oblige me--hum--with +a blue neckcloth you will find in that drawer at your elbow. Button +my coat across at the chest, my love. It looks--ha--it looks broader, +buttoned.’ + +With his trembling hand he pushed his grey hair up, and then, taking +Clennam and his daughter for supporters, appeared at the window leaning +on an arm of each. The Collegians cheered him very heartily, and he +kissed his hand to them with great urbanity and protection. When he +withdrew into the room again, he said ‘Poor creatures!’ in a tone of +much pity for their miserable condition. + +Little Dorrit was deeply anxious that he should lie down to compose +himself. On Arthur’s speaking to her of his going to inform Pancks that +he might now appear as soon as he would, and pursue the joyful business +to its close, she entreated him in a whisper to stay with her until her +father should be quite calm and at rest. He needed no second entreaty; +and she prepared her father’s bed, and begged him to lie down. For +another half-hour or more he would be persuaded to do nothing but +go about the room, discussing with himself the probabilities for and +against the Marshal’s allowing the whole of the prisoners to go to the +windows of the official residence which commanded the street, to see +himself and family depart for ever in a carriage--which, he said, he +thought would be a Sight for them. But gradually he began to droop and +tire, and at last stretched himself upon the bed. + +She took her faithful place beside him, fanning him and cooling his +forehead; and he seemed to be falling asleep (always with the money in +his hand), when he unexpectedly sat up and said: + +‘Mr Clennam, I beg your pardon. Am I to understand, my dear sir, that I +could--ha--could pass through the Lodge at this moment, and--hum--take a +walk?’ + +‘I think not, Mr Dorrit,’ was the unwilling reply. ‘There are certain +forms to be completed; and although your detention here is now in itself +a form, I fear it is one that for a little longer has to be observed +too.’ + +At this he shed tears again. + +‘It is but a few hours, sir,’ Clennam cheerfully urged upon him. + +‘A few hours, sir,’ he returned in a sudden passion. ‘You talk very +easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a +man who is choking for want of air?’ + +It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some +more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn’t breathe, he +slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his +thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed, +and the daughter fanning his face. + +Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his grey hair +aside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towards +Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subject +of her thoughts. + +‘Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?’ + +‘No doubt. All.’ + +‘All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and +longer?’ + +‘No doubt.’ + +There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look; +something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and +said: + +‘You are glad that he should do so?’ + +‘Are you?’ asked Little Dorrit, wistfully. + +‘Am I? Most heartily glad!’ + +‘Then I know I ought to be.’ + +‘And are you not?’ + +‘It seems to me hard,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that he should have lost so +many years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well. +It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both.’ + +‘My dear child--’ Clennam was beginning. + +‘Yes, I know I am wrong,’ she pleaded timidly, ‘don’t think any worse of +me; it has grown up with me here.’ + +The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little +Dorrit’s mind no more than this. Engendered as the confusion was, in +compassion for the poor prisoner, her father, it was the first speck +Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the +prison atmosphere upon her. + +He thought this, and forbore to say another word. With the thought, her +purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. The little +spot made them the more beautiful. + +Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room, +her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her +head dropped down on the pillow at her father’s side. Clennam rose +softly, opened and closed the door without a sound, and passed from the +prison, carrying the quiet with him into the turbulent streets. + + + + +CHAPTER 36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan + + +And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave the +prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to +know them no more. + +The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its +length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He had +been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He +had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found +him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told +Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not +submit to imposition. On that gentleman’s humbly representing that +he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; +desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen +times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he +forgot whom he talked to. + +Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years’ standing, and +with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported +himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his +congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr +Dorrit’s occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the +moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no +sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which +he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of +receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had +not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he +begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal’s +offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested character and its +perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded. + +Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in their +altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them, +Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers, +tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and +ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss +Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great +fashion and elegance; and the three passed this interval together at the +best hotel in the neighbourhood--though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the +best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr +Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which +was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the +Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest +little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there; +in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the +Marshal’s daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets. + +A great deal of business was transacted in this short period. Among +other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument Yard, were +instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter +to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine +shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest +computed at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their +client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this +communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further +instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the +advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and +to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly +proffered in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and +remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to +be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit +so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him +by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the +greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing +to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his +room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of +documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such +case, ‘it is a donation, not a loan’) with a great deal of good counsel: +to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to +be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and +the general respect even there. + +The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and +traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years’ standing, the event +was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers. +Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the +thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or +that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or +other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being +left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the +family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in +politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have +been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from +hand to mouth--from the pawnbroker’s hand to the day’s dinner. + +They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and +glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion or +preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious +answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he +received the profession of their attachment with a full conviction +of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted them to follow his +example--which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was +concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took +the same occasion of inviting them to a comprehensive entertainment, to +be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified +he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and +happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind. + +He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in +the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but +his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to +be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and +took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands were of the quality +he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a +baron of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the +repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them +that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they +would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them +well; and that he bade them welcome. His health being drunk with +acclamations, he was not so baronial after all but that in trying to +return thanks he broke down, in the manner of a mere serf with a heart +in his breast, and wept before them all. After this great success, which +he supposed to be a failure, he gave them ‘Mr Chivery and his brother +officers;’ whom he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and +who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What +you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the +words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list of +toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions of +playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest +inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions. + +But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day +arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and +when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more. + +Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there +was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class +of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of +the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two +or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds and +ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a +serious but graceful dignity. Much of his great attention was given to +his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious. + +‘My dear Frederick,’ said he, ‘if you will give me your arm we will pass +among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out +arm in arm, my dear Frederick.’ + +‘Hah!’ said Frederick. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’ + +‘And if, my dear Frederick--if you could, without putting any great +constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a +little polish into your usual demeanour--’ + +‘William, William,’ said the other, shaking his head, ‘it’s for you to +do all that. I don’t know how. All forgotten, forgotten!’ + +‘But, my dear fellow,’ returned William, ‘for that very reason, if +for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you +have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your +position--’ + +‘Eh?’ said Frederick. + +‘Your position, my dear Frederick.’ + +‘Mine?’ He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother’s, +and then, drawing a long breath, cried, ‘Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes, +yes.’ + +‘Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your position, as +my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs to your +conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it, my dear Frederick, +and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to it, but to adorn it.’ + +‘William,’ said the other weakly, and with a sigh, ‘I will do anything +you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as +to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do +to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.’ + +‘My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a +heart as yours with.’ + +‘Pray trouble it,’ returned the other. ‘It finds it no trouble, William, +to do anything it can for you.’ + +William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august +satisfaction, ‘Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!’ Then +he said aloud, ‘Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we +walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion--that you think +about it--’ + +‘What would you advise me to think about it?’ returned his submissive +brother. + +‘Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in +leaving these good people, I think myself.’ + +‘That’s it!’ cried his brother. ‘That will help me.’ + +‘I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in +which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!’ + +‘True,’ returned his brother. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll think that as we +go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do +without him!’ + +Twelve o’clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready +in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs arm-in-arm. +Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister Fanny followed, +also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had been entrusted the +removal of such of the family effects as were considered worth removing, +followed, bearing bundles and burdens to be packed in a cart. + +In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were Mr +Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their work. +In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself, on +the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the +Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent that many +enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the hand, and the wives +and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, nothing +doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man with the +shadowy grievance respecting the Fund which the Marshal embezzled, who +had got up at five in the morning to complete the copying of a perfectly +unintelligible history of that transaction, which he had committed to Mr +Dorrit’s care, as a document of the last importance, calculated to stun +the Government and effect the Marshal’s downfall. In the yard, was the +insolvent whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt, +who broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out +of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the +insolvent at his elbow--a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman, +half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt--found it a hard +matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner to release him with much reproof +and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many children and many +burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of +no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There, +were the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting +it off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who +were much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than +the seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit, +cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family; there, +were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the +gloom of their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the light of +such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into his +pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now obtrusively Hail +fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that assistance. It was +rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that they were a little shy +of the bird about to be so grandly free, and that they had a tendency to +withdraw themselves towards the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he +passed. + +Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two +brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the vast +speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was +great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the head +like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, he spoke to people in the +background by their Christian names, he condescended to all present, and +seemed for their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in golden +characters, ‘Be comforted, my people! Bear it!’ + +At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and +that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased to ring in the +echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into their carriage, and +the attendant had the steps in his hand. + +Then, and not before, ‘Good Gracious!’ cried Miss Fanny all at once, +‘Where’s Amy!’ + +Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had thought +she was ‘somewhere or other.’ They had all trusted to finding her, as +they had always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment. +This going away was perhaps the very first action of their joint lives +that they had got through without her. + +A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these points, +when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage, commanded the long +narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed indignantly. + +‘Now I do say, Pa,’ cried she, ‘that this is disgraceful!’ + +‘What is disgraceful, Fanny?’ + +‘I do say,’ she repeated, ‘this is perfectly infamous! Really almost +enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was dead! +Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so +obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again begged and prayed her +to change, and which she over and over again objected to, and promised +to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as long as ever she +remained in there with you--which was absolutely romantic nonsense of +the lowest kind--here is that child Amy disgracing us to the last moment +and at the last moment, by being carried out in that dress after all. +And by that Mr Clennam too!’ + +The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment. Clennam +appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in +his arms. + +‘She has been forgotten,’ he said, in a tone of pity not free from +reproach. ‘I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and found +the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear child. +She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have sunk down +overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have happened +sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don’t let it +fall.’ + +‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. ‘I believe +I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open your eyes, +that’s a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed and ashamed! Do rouse +yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive +on!’ + +The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a +sharp ‘By your leave, sir!’ bundled up the steps, and they drove away. + + + + +BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES + + + + +CHAPTER 1. Fellow Travellers + + +In the autumn of the year, Darkness and Night were creeping up to the +highest ridges of the Alps. + +It was vintage time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of the +Great Saint Bernard, and along the banks of the Lake of Geneva. +The air there was charged with the scent of gathered grapes. Baskets, +troughs, and tubs of grapes stood in the dim village doorways, stopped +the steep and narrow village streets, and had been carrying all day +along the roads and lanes. Grapes, split and crushed under foot, lay +about everywhere. The child carried in a sling by the laden peasant +woman toiling home, was quieted with picked-up grapes; the idiot sunning +his big goitre under the leaves of the wooden chalet by the way to the +Waterfall, sat munching grapes; the breath of the cows and goats was +redolent of leaves and stalks of grapes; the company in every little +cabaret were eating, drinking, talking grapes. A pity that no ripe touch +of this generous abundance could be given to the thin, hard, stony wine, +which after all was made from the grapes! + +The air had been warm and transparent through the whole of the bright +day. Shining metal spires and church-roofs, distant and rarely seen, had +sparkled in the view; and the snowy mountain-tops had been so clear that +unaccustomed eyes, cancelling the intervening country, and slighting +their rugged heights for something fabulous, would have measured them as +within a few hours easy reach. Mountain-peaks of great celebrity in the +valleys, whence no trace of their existence was visible sometimes for +months together, had been since morning plain and near in the blue sky. +And now, when it was dark below, though they seemed solemnly to recede, +like spectres who were going to vanish, as the red dye of the sunset +faded out of them and left them coldly white, they were yet distinctly +defined in their loneliness above the mists and shadows. + +Seen from these solitudes, and from the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, +which was one of them, the ascending Night came up the mountain like a +rising water. When it at last rose to the walls of the convent of the +Great Saint Bernard, it was as if that weather-beaten structure were +another Ark, and floated on the shadowy waves. + +Darkness, outstripping some visitors on mules, had risen thus to +the rough convent walls, when those travellers were yet climbing the +mountain. As the heat of the glowing day when they had stopped to drink +at the streams of melted ice and snow, was changed to the searching cold +of the frosty rarefied night air at a great height, so the fresh beauty +of the lower journey had yielded to barrenness and desolation. A craggy +track, up which the mules in single file scrambled and turned from +block to block, as though they were ascending the broken staircase of +a gigantic ruin, was their way now. No trees were to be seen, nor any +vegetable growth save a poor brown scrubby moss, freezing in the chinks +of rock. Blackened skeleton arms of wood by the wayside pointed upward +to the convent as if the ghosts of former travellers overwhelmed by the +snow haunted the scene of their distress. Icicle-hung caves and cellars +built for refuges from sudden storms, were like so many whispers of the +perils of the place; never-resting wreaths and mazes of mist wandered +about, hunted by a moaning wind; and snow, the besetting danger of the +mountain, against which all its defences were taken, drifted sharply +down. + +The file of mules, jaded by their day’s work, turned and wound slowly +up the deep ascent; the foremost led by a guide on foot, in his +broad-brimmed hat and round jacket, carrying a mountain staff or two +upon his shoulder, with whom another guide conversed. There was no +speaking among the string of riders. The sharp cold, the fatigue of the +journey, and a new sensation of a catching in the breath, partly as if +they had just emerged from very clear crisp water, and partly as if they +had been sobbing, kept them silent. + +At length, a light on the summit of the rocky staircase gleamed through +the snow and mist. The guides called to the mules, the mules pricked up +their drooping heads, the travellers’ tongues were loosened, and in a +sudden burst of slipping, climbing, jingling, clinking, and talking, +they arrived at the convent door. + +Other mules had arrived not long before, some with peasant riders and +some with goods, and had trodden the snow about the door into a pool +of mud. Riding-saddles and bridles, pack-saddles and strings of bells, +mules and men, lanterns, torches, sacks, provender, barrels, cheeses, +kegs of honey and butter, straw bundles and packages of many shapes, +were crowded confusedly together in this thawed quagmire and about the +steps. Up here in the clouds, everything was seen through cloud, and +seemed dissolving into cloud. The breath of the men was cloud, the +breath of the mules was cloud, the lights were encircled by cloud, +speakers close at hand were not seen for cloud, though their voices and +all other sounds were surprisingly clear. Of the cloudy line of mules +hastily tied to rings in the wall, one would bite another, or kick +another, and then the whole mist would be disturbed: with men diving +into it, and cries of men and beasts coming out of it, and no bystander +discerning what was wrong. In the midst of this, the great stable of the +convent, occupying the basement story and entered by the basement door, +outside which all the disorder was, poured forth its contribution of +cloud, as if the whole rugged edifice were filled with nothing else, +and would collapse as soon as it had emptied itself, leaving the snow to +fall upon the bare mountain summit. + +While all this noise and hurry were rife among the living travellers, +there, too, silently assembled in a grated house half-a-dozen paces +removed, with the same cloud enfolding them and the same snow flakes +drifting in upon them, were the dead travellers found upon the mountain. +The mother, storm-belated many winters ago, still standing in the corner +with her baby at her breast; the man who had frozen with his arm raised +to his mouth in fear or hunger, still pressing it with his dry lips +after years and years. An awful company, mysteriously come together! A +wild destiny for that mother to have foreseen! ‘Surrounded by so many +and such companions upon whom I never looked, and never shall look, +I and my child will dwell together inseparable, on the Great Saint +Bernard, outlasting generations who will come to see us, and will never +know our name, or one word of our story but the end.’ + +The living travellers thought little or nothing of the dead just then. +They thought much more of alighting at the convent door, and warming +themselves at the convent fire. Disengaged from the turmoil, which was +already calming down as the crowd of mules began to be bestowed in the +stable, they hurried shivering up the steps and into the building. There +was a smell within, coming up from the floor, of tethered beasts, like +the smell of a menagerie of wild animals. There were strong arched +galleries within, huge stone piers, great staircases, and thick walls +pierced with small sunken windows--fortifications against the mountain +storms, as if they had been human enemies. There were gloomy vaulted +sleeping-rooms within, intensely cold, but clean and hospitably prepared +for guests. Finally, there was a parlour for guests to sit in and sup +in, where a table was already laid, and where a blazing fire shone red +and high. + +In this room, after having had their quarters for the night allotted +to them by two young Fathers, the travellers presently drew round the +hearth. They were in three parties; of whom the first, as the most +numerous and important, was the slowest, and had been overtaken by +one of the others on the way up. It consisted of an elderly lady, two +grey-haired gentlemen, two young ladies, and their brother. These were +attended (not to mention four guides), by a courier, two footmen, and +two waiting-maids: which strong body of inconvenience was accommodated +elsewhere under the same roof. The party that had overtaken them, and +followed in their train, consisted of only three members: one lady and +two gentlemen. The third party, which had ascended from the valley +on the Italian side of the Pass, and had arrived first, were four in +number: a plethoric, hungry, and silent German tutor in spectacles, on +a tour with three young men, his pupils, all plethoric, hungry, and +silent, and all in spectacles. + +These three groups sat round the fire eyeing each other drily, and +waiting for supper. Only one among them, one of the gentlemen belonging +to the party of three, made advances towards conversation. Throwing out +his lines for the Chief of the important tribe, while addressing himself +to his own companions, he remarked, in a tone of voice which included +all the company if they chose to be included, that it had been a long +day, and that he felt for the ladies. That he feared one of the +young ladies was not a strong or accustomed traveller, and had been +over-fatigued two or three hours ago. That he had observed, from his +station in the rear, that she sat her mule as if she were exhausted. +That he had, twice or thrice afterwards, done himself the honour of +inquiring of one of the guides, when he fell behind, how the lady did. +That he had been enchanted to learn that she had recovered her spirits, +and that it had been but a passing discomfort. That he trusted (by this +time he had secured the eyes of the Chief, and addressed him) he might +be permitted to express his hope that she was now none the worse, and +that she would not regret having made the journey. + +‘My daughter, I am obliged to you, sir,’ returned the Chief, ‘is quite +restored, and has been greatly interested.’ + +‘New to mountains, perhaps?’ said the insinuating traveller. + +‘New to--ha--to mountains,’ said the Chief. + +‘But you are familiar with them, sir?’ the insinuating traveller +assumed. + +‘I am--hum--tolerably familiar. Not of late years. Not of late years,’ +replied the Chief, with a flourish of his hand. + +The insinuating traveller, acknowledging the flourish with an +inclination of his head, passed from the Chief to the second young lady, +who had not yet been referred to otherwise than as one of the ladies in +whose behalf he felt so sensitive an interest. + +He hoped she was not incommoded by the fatigues of the day. + +‘Incommoded, certainly,’ returned the young lady, ‘but not tired.’ + +The insinuating traveller complimented her on the justice of the +distinction. It was what he had meant to say. Every lady must doubtless +be incommoded by having to do with that proverbially unaccommodating +animal, the mule. + +‘We have had, of course,’ said the young lady, who was rather reserved +and haughty, ‘to leave the carriages and fourgon at Martigny. And the +impossibility of bringing anything that one wants to this inaccessible +place, and the necessity of leaving every comfort behind, is not +convenient.’ + +‘A savage place indeed,’ said the insinuating traveller. + +The elderly lady, who was a model of accurate dressing, and whose manner +was perfect, considered as a piece of machinery, here interposed a +remark in a low soft voice. + +‘But, like other inconvenient places,’ she observed, ‘it must be seen. +As a place much spoken of, it is necessary to see it.’ + +‘O! I have not the least objection to seeing it, I assure you, Mrs +General,’ returned the other, carelessly. + +‘You, madam,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘have visited this spot +before?’ + +‘Yes,’ returned Mrs General. ‘I have been here before. Let me +commend you, my dear,’ to the former young lady, ‘to shade your face +from the hot wood, after exposure to the mountain air and snow. You, +too, my dear,’ to the other and younger lady, who immediately did so; +while the former merely said, ‘Thank you, Mrs General, I am Perfectly +comfortable, and prefer remaining as I am.’ + +The brother, who had left his chair to open a piano that stood in +the room, and who had whistled into it and shut it up again, now came +strolling back to the fire with his glass in his eye. He was dressed in +the very fullest and completest travelling trim. The world seemed hardly +large enough to yield him an amount of travel proportionate to his +equipment. + +‘These fellows are an immense time with supper,’ he drawled. ‘I wonder +what they’ll give us! Has anybody any idea?’ + +‘Not roast man, I believe,’ replied the voice of the second gentleman of +the party of three. + +‘I suppose not. What d’ye mean?’ he inquired. + +‘That, as you are not to be served for the general supper, perhaps you +will do us the favour of not cooking yourself at the general fire,’ +returned the other. + +The young gentleman who was standing in an easy attitude on the hearth, +cocking his glass at the company, with his back to the blaze and his +coat tucked under his arms, something as if he were Of the Poultry +species and were trussed for roasting, lost countenance at this +reply; he seemed about to demand further explanation, when it was +discovered--through all eyes turning on the speaker--that the lady with +him, who was young and beautiful, had not heard what had passed through +having fainted with her head upon his shoulder. + +‘I think,’ said the gentleman in a subdued tone, ‘I had best carry +her straight to her room. Will you call to some one to bring a light?’ +addressing his companion, ‘and to show the way? In this strange rambling +place I don’t know that I could find it.’ + +‘Pray, let me call my maid,’ cried the taller of the young ladies. + +‘Pray, let me put this water to her lips,’ said the shorter, who had not +spoken yet. + +Each doing what she suggested, there was no want of assistance. Indeed, +when the two maids came in (escorted by the courier, lest any one should +strike them dumb by addressing a foreign language to them on the road), +there was a prospect of too much assistance. Seeing this, and saying as +much in a few words to the slighter and younger of the two ladies, +the gentleman put his wife’s arm over his shoulder, lifted her up, and +carried her away. + +His friend, being left alone with the other visitors, walked slowly up +and down the room without coming to the fire again, pulling his black +moustache in a contemplative manner, as if he felt himself committed +to the late retort. While the subject of it was breathing injury in a +corner, the Chief loftily addressed this gentleman. + +‘Your friend, sir,’ said he, ‘is--ha--is a little impatient; and, in +his impatience, is not perhaps fully sensible of what he owes +to--hum--to--but we will waive that, we will waive that. Your friend is +a little impatient, sir.’ + +‘It may be so, sir,’ returned the other. ‘But having had the honour of +making that gentleman’s acquaintance at the hotel at Geneva, where we +and much good company met some time ago, and having had the honour +of exchanging company and conversation with that gentleman on several +subsequent excursions, I can hear nothing--no, not even from one of your +appearance and station, sir--detrimental to that gentleman.’ + +‘You are in no danger, sir, of hearing any such thing from me. In +remarking that your friend has shown impatience, I say no such thing. I +make that remark, because it is not to be doubted that my son, being by +birth and by--ha--by education a--hum--a gentleman, would have readily +adapted himself to any obligingly expressed wish on the subject of the +fire being equally accessible to the whole of the present circle. Which, +in principle, I--ha--for all are--hum--equal on these occasions--I +consider right.’ + +‘Good,’ was the reply. ‘And there it ends! I am your son’s obedient +servant. I beg your son to receive the assurance of my profound +consideration. And now, sir, I may admit, freely admit, that my friend +is sometimes of a sarcastic temper.’ + +‘The lady is your friend’s wife, sir?’ + +‘The lady is my friend’s wife, sir.’ + +‘She is very handsome.’ + +‘Sir, she is peerless. They are still in the first year of their +marriage. They are still partly on a marriage, and partly on an +artistic, tour.’ + +‘Your friend is an artist, sir?’ + +The gentleman replied by kissing the fingers of his right hand, and +wafting the kiss the length of his arm towards Heaven. As who should +say, I devote him to the celestial Powers as an immortal artist! + +‘But he is a man of family,’ he added. ‘His connections are of the best. +He is more than an artist: he is highly connected. He may, in effect, +have repudiated his connections, proudly, impatiently, sarcastically (I +make the concession of both words); but he has them. Sparks that have +been struck out during our intercourse have shown me this.’ + +‘Well! I hope,’ said the lofty gentleman, with the air of finally +disposing of the subject, ‘that the lady’s indisposition may be only +temporary.’ + +‘Sir, I hope so.’ + +‘Mere fatigue, I dare say.’ + +‘Not altogether mere fatigue, sir, for her mule stumbled to-day, and +she fell from the saddle. She fell lightly, and was up again without +assistance, and rode from us laughing; but she complained towards +evening of a slight bruise in the side. She spoke of it more than once, +as we followed your party up the mountain.’ + +The head of the large retinue, who was gracious but not familiar, +appeared by this time to think that he had condescended more than +enough. He said no more, and there was silence for some quarter of an +hour until supper appeared. + +With the supper came one of the young Fathers (there seemed to be no +old Fathers) to take the head of the table. It was like the supper of +an ordinary Swiss hotel, and good red wine grown by the convent in more +genial air was not wanting. The artist traveller calmly came and took +his place at table when the rest sat down, with no apparent sense upon +him of his late skirmish with the completely dressed traveller. + +‘Pray,’ he inquired of the host, over his soup, ‘has your convent many +of its famous dogs now?’ + +‘Monsieur, it has three.’ + +‘I saw three in the gallery below. Doubtless the three in question.’ + +The host, a slender, bright-eyed, dark young man of polite manners, +whose garment was a black gown with strips of white crossed over it like +braces, and who no more resembled the conventional breed of Saint +Bernard monks than he resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard +dogs, replied, doubtless those were the three in question. + +‘And I think,’ said the artist traveller, ‘I have seen one of them +before.’ + +It was possible. He was a dog sufficiently well known. Monsieur might +have easily seen him in the valley or somewhere on the lake, when he +(the dog) had gone down with one of the order to solicit aid for the +convent. + +‘Which is done in its regular season of the year, I think?’ + +Monsieur was right. + +‘And never without a dog. The dog is very important.’ + +Again Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were justly +interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated everywhere, +Ma’amselle would observe. + +Ma’amselle was a little slow to observe it, as though she were not yet +well accustomed to the French tongue. Mrs General, however, observed it +for her. + +‘Ask him if he has saved many lives?’ said, in his native English, the +young man who had been put out of countenance. + +The host needed no translation of the question. He promptly replied in +French, ‘No. Not this one.’ + +‘Why not?’ the same gentleman asked. + +‘Pardon,’ returned the host composedly, ‘give him the opportunity and +he will do it without doubt. For example, I am well convinced,’ smiling +sedately, as he cut up the dish of veal to be handed round, on the young +man who had been put out of countenance, ‘that if you, Monsieur, would +give him the opportunity, he would hasten with great ardour to fulfil +his duty.’ + +The artist traveller laughed. The insinuating traveller (who evinced +a provident anxiety to get his full share of the supper), wiping some +drops of wine from his moustache with a piece of bread, joined the +conversation. + +‘It is becoming late in the year, my Father,’ said he, ‘for +tourist-travellers, is it not?’ + +‘Yes, it is late. Yet two or three weeks, at most, and we shall be left +to the winter snows.’ + +‘And then,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘for the scratching dogs and +the buried children, according to the pictures!’ + +‘Pardon,’ said the host, not quite understanding the allusion. ‘How, +then the scratching dogs and the buried children according to the +pictures?’ + +The artist traveller struck in again before an answer could be given. + +‘Don’t you know,’ he coldly inquired across the table of his companion, +‘that none but smugglers come this way in the winter or can have any +possible business this way?’ + +‘Holy blue! No; never heard of it.’ + +‘So it is, I believe. And as they know the signs of the weather +tolerably well, they don’t give much employment to the dogs--who have +consequently died out rather--though this house of entertainment is +conveniently situated for themselves. Their young families, I am told, +they usually leave at home. But it’s a grand idea!’ cried the artist +traveller, unexpectedly rising into a tone of enthusiasm. ‘It’s a +sublime idea. It’s the finest idea in the world, and brings tears into +a man’s eyes, by Jupiter!’ He then went on eating his veal with great +composure. + +There was enough of mocking inconsistency at the bottom of this speech +to make it rather discordant, though the manner was refined and the +person well-favoured, and though the depreciatory part of it was so +skilfully thrown off as to be very difficult for one not perfectly +acquainted with the English language to understand, or, even +understanding, to take offence at: so simple and dispassionate was its +tone. After finishing his veal in the midst of silence, the speaker +again addressed his friend. + +‘Look,’ said he, in his former tone, ‘at this gentleman our host, not +yet in the prime of life, who in so graceful a way and with such courtly +urbanity and modesty presides over us! Manners fit for a crown! Dine +with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an invitation) and observe +the contrast. This dear fellow, with the finest cut face I ever saw, a +face in perfect drawing, leaves some laborious life and comes up here +I don’t know how many feet above the level of the sea, for no other +purpose on earth (except enjoying himself, I hope, in a capital +refectory) than to keep an hotel for idle poor devils like you and +me, and leave the bill to our consciences! Why, isn’t it a beautiful +sacrifice? What do we want more to touch us? Because rescued people of +interesting appearance are not, for eight or nine months out of every +twelve, holding on here round the necks of the most sagacious of dogs +carrying wooden bottles, shall we disparage the place? No! Bless the +place. It’s a great place, a glorious place!’ + +The chest of the grey-haired gentleman who was the Chief of the +important party, had swelled as if with a protest against his being +numbered among poor devils. No sooner had the artist traveller ceased +speaking than he himself spoke with great dignity, as having it +incumbent on him to take the lead in most places, and having deserted +that duty for a little while. + +He weightily communicated his opinion to their host, that his life must +be a very dreary life here in the winter. + +The host allowed to Monsieur that it was a little monotonous. The air +was difficult to breathe for a length of time consecutively. The cold +was very severe. One needed youth and strength to bear it. However, +having them and the blessing of Heaven-- + +Yes, that was very good. ‘But the confinement,’ said the grey-haired +gentleman. + +There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to +walk about outside. It was the custom to beat a little track, and take +exercise there. + +‘But the space,’ urged the grey-haired gentleman. ‘So small. +So--ha--very limited.’ + +Monsieur would recall to himself that there were the refuges to visit, +and that tracks had to be made to them also. + +Monsieur still urged, on the other hand, that the space was +so--ha--hum--so very contracted. More than that, it was always the same, +always the same. + +With a deprecating smile, the host gently raised and gently lowered his +shoulders. That was true, he remarked, but permit him to say that almost +all objects had their various points of view. Monsieur and he did not +see this poor life of his from the same point of view. Monsieur was not +used to confinement. + +‘I--ha--yes, very true,’ said the grey-haired gentleman. He seemed to +receive quite a shock from the force of the argument. + +Monsieur, as an English traveller, surrounded by all means of travelling +pleasantly; doubtless possessing fortune, carriages, and servants-- + +‘Perfectly, perfectly. Without doubt,’ said the gentleman. + +Monsieur could not easily place himself in the position of a person who +had not the power to choose, I will go here to-morrow, or there next +day; I will pass these barriers, I will enlarge those bounds. Monsieur +could not realise, perhaps, how the mind accommodated itself in such +things to the force of necessity. + +‘It is true,’ said Monsieur. ‘We will--ha--not pursue the subject. +You are--hum--quite accurate, I have no doubt. We will say no more.’ + +The supper having come to a close, he drew his chair away as he spoke, +and moved back to his former place by the fire. As it was very cold +at the greater part of the table, the other guests also resumed their +former seats by the fire, designing to toast themselves well before +going to bed. The host, when they rose from the table, bowed to all +present, wished them good night, and withdrew. But first the insinuating +traveller had asked him if they could have some wine made hot; and as +he had answered Yes, and had presently afterwards sent it in, that +traveller, seated in the centre of the group, and in the full heat of +the fire, was soon engaged in serving it out to the rest. + +At this time, the younger of the two young ladies, who had been silently +attentive in her dark corner (the fire-light was the chief light in the +sombre room, the lamp being smoky and dull) to what had been said of the +absent lady, glided out. She was at a loss which way to turn when she +had softly closed the door; but, after a little hesitation among the +sounding passages and the many ways, came to a room in a corner of the +main gallery, where the servants were at their supper. From these she +obtained a lamp, and a direction to the lady’s room. + +It was up the great staircase on the story above. Here and there, the +bare white walls were broken by an iron grate, and she thought as she +went along that the place was something like a prison. The arched door +of the lady’s room, or cell, was not quite shut. After knocking at it +two or three times without receiving an answer, she pushed it gently +open, and looked in. + +The lady lay with closed eyes on the outside of the bed, protected from +the cold by the blankets and wrappers with which she had been covered +when she revived from her fainting fit. A dull light placed in the deep +recess of the window, made little impression on the arched room. The +visitor timidly stepped to the bed, and said, in a soft whisper, ‘Are +you better?’ + +The lady had fallen into a slumber, and the whisper was too low to awake +her. Her visitor, standing quite still, looked at her attentively. + +‘She is very pretty,’ she said to herself. ‘I never saw so beautiful a +face. O how unlike me!’ + +It was a curious thing to say, but it had some hidden meaning, for it +filled her eyes with tears. + +‘I know I must be right. I know he spoke of her that evening. I could +very easily be wrong on any other subject, but not on this, not on +this!’ + +With a quiet and tender hand she put aside a straying fold of the +sleeper’s hair, and then touched the hand that lay outside the covering. + +‘I like to look at her,’ she breathed to herself. ‘I like to see what +has affected him so much.’ + +She had not withdrawn her hand, when the sleeper opened her eyes and +started. + +‘Pray don’t be alarmed. I am only one of the travellers from +down-stairs. I came to ask if you were better, and if I could do +anything for you.’ + +‘I think you have already been so kind as to send your servants to my +assistance?’ + +‘No, not I; that was my sister. Are you better?’ + +‘Much better. It is only a slight bruise, and has been well looked to, +and is almost easy now. It made me giddy and faint in a moment. It had +hurt me before; but at last it overpowered me all at once.’ + +‘May I stay with you until some one comes? Would you like it?’ + +‘I should like it, for it is lonely here; but I am afraid you will feel +the cold too much.’ + +‘I don’t mind cold. I am not delicate, if I look so.’ She quickly moved +one of the two rough chairs to the bedside, and sat down. The other as +quickly moved a part of some travelling wrapper from herself, and drew +it over her, so that her arm, in keeping it about her, rested on her +shoulder. + +‘You have so much the air of a kind nurse,’ said the lady, smiling on +her, ‘that you seem as if you had come to me from home.’ + +‘I am very glad of it.’ + +‘I was dreaming of home when I woke just now. Of my old home, I mean, +before I was married.’ + +‘And before you were so far away from it.’ + +‘I have been much farther away from it than this; but then I took +the best part of it with me, and missed nothing. I felt solitary as I +dropped asleep here, and, missing it a little, wandered back to it.’ + +There was a sorrowfully affectionate and regretful sound in her voice, +which made her visitor refrain from looking at her for the moment. + +‘It is a curious chance which at last brings us together, under this +covering in which you have wrapped me,’ said the visitor after a +pause; ‘for do you know, I think I have been looking for you some time.’ + +‘Looking for me?’ + +‘I believe I have a little note here, which I was to give to you +whenever I found you. This is it. Unless I greatly mistake, it is +addressed to you? Is it not?’ + +The lady took it, and said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched her as +she did so. It was very short. She flushed a little as she put her lips +to her visitor’s cheek, and pressed her hand. + +‘The dear young friend to whom he presents me, may be a comfort to me +at some time, he says. She is truly a comfort to me the first time I see +her.’ + +‘Perhaps you don’t,’ said the visitor, hesitating--‘perhaps you don’t +know my story? Perhaps he never told you my story?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Oh no, why should he! I have scarcely the right to tell it myself at +present, because I have been entreated not to do so. There is not much +in it, but it might account to you for my asking you not to say anything +about the letter here. You saw my family with me, perhaps? Some of +them--I only say this to you--are a little proud, a little prejudiced.’ + +‘You shall take it back again,’ said the other; ‘and then my husband is +sure not to see it. He might see it and speak of it, otherwise, by some +accident. Will you put it in your bosom again, to be certain?’ + +She did so with great care. Her small, slight hand was still upon the +letter, when they heard some one in the gallery outside. + +‘I promised,’ said the visitor, rising, ‘that I would write to him after +seeing you (I could hardly fail to see you sooner or later), and tell +him if you were well and happy. I had better say you were well and +happy.’ + +‘Yes, yes, yes! Say I was very well and very happy. And that I thanked +him affectionately, and would never forget him.’ + +‘I shall see you in the morning. After that we are sure to meet again +before very long. Good night!’ + +‘Good night. Thank you, thank you. Good night, my dear!’ + +Both of them were hurried and fluttered as they exchanged this parting, +and as the visitor came out of the door. She had expected to meet the +lady’s husband approaching it; but the person in the gallery was not +he: it was the traveller who had wiped the wine-drops from his moustache +with the piece of bread. When he heard the step behind him, he turned +round--for he was walking away in the dark. + +His politeness, which was extreme, would not allow of the young lady’s +lighting herself down-stairs, or going down alone. He took her lamp, +held it so as to throw the best light on the stone steps, and followed +her all the way to the supper-room. She went down, not easily hiding how +much she was inclined to shrink and tremble; for the appearance of this +traveller was particularly disagreeable to her. She had sat in her quiet +corner before supper imagining what he would have been in the scenes and +places within her experience, until he inspired her with an aversion +that made him little less than terrific. + +He followed her down with his smiling politeness, followed her in, +and resumed his seat in the best place in the hearth. There with the +wood-fire, which was beginning to burn low, rising and falling upon him +in the dark room, he sat with his legs thrust out to warm, drinking the +hot wine down to the lees, with a monstrous shadow imitating him on the +wall and ceiling. + +The tired company had broken up, and all the rest were gone to bed +except the young lady’s father, who dozed in his chair by the fire. +The traveller had been at the pains of going a long way up-stairs to his +sleeping-room to fetch his pocket-flask of brandy. He told them so, as +he poured its contents into what was left of the wine, and drank with a +new relish. + +‘May I ask, sir, if you are on your way to Italy?’ + +The grey-haired gentleman had roused himself, and was preparing to +withdraw. He answered in the affirmative. + +‘I also!’ said the traveller. ‘I shall hope to have the honour +of offering my compliments in fairer scenes, and under softer +circumstances, than on this dismal mountain.’ + +The gentleman bowed, distantly enough, and said he was obliged to him. + +‘We poor gentlemen, sir,’ said the traveller, pulling his moustache dry +with his hand, for he had dipped it in the wine and brandy; ‘we poor +gentlemen do not travel like princes, but the courtesies and graces of +life are precious to us. To your health, sir!’ + +‘Sir, I thank you.’ + +‘To the health of your distinguished family--of the fair ladies, your +daughters!’ + +‘Sir, I thank you again, I wish you good night. My dear, are +our--ha--our people in attendance?’ + +‘They are close by, father.’ + +‘Permit me!’ said the traveller, rising and holding the door open, as +the gentleman crossed the room towards it with his arm drawn through his +daughter’s. ‘Good repose! To the pleasure of seeing you once more! To +to-morrow!’ + +As he kissed his hand, with his best manner and his daintiest smile, +the young lady drew a little nearer to her father, and passed him with a +dread of touching him. + +‘Humph!’ said the insinuating traveller, whose manner shrunk, and whose +voice dropped when he was left alone. ‘If they all go to bed, why I must +go. They are in a devil of a hurry. One would think the night would be +long enough, in this freezing silence and solitude, if one went to bed +two hours hence.’ + +Throwing back his head in emptying his glass, he cast his eyes upon the +travellers’ book, which lay on the piano, open, with pens and ink beside +it, as if the night’s names had been registered when he was absent. +Taking it in his hand, he read these entries. + + + William Dorrit, Esquire + Frederick Dorrit, Esquire + Edward Dorrit, Esquire + Miss Dorrit + Miss Amy Dorrit + Mrs General + and Suite. + From France to Italy. + + Mr and Mrs Henry Gowan. + From France to Italy. + + +To which he added, in a small complicated hand, ending with a long lean +flourish, not unlike a lasso thrown at all the rest of the names: + + + Blandois. Paris. + From France to Italy. + + +And then, with his nose coming down over his moustache and his moustache +going up and under his nose, repaired to his allotted cell. + + + + +CHAPTER 2. Mrs General + + +It is indispensable to present the accomplished lady who was of +sufficient importance in the suite of the Dorrit Family to have a line +to herself in the Travellers’ Book. + +Mrs General was the daughter of a clerical dignitary in a cathedral +town, where she had led the fashion until she was as near forty-five as +a single lady can be. A stiff commissariat officer of sixty, famous as a +martinet, had then become enamoured of the gravity with which she drove +the proprieties four-in-hand through the cathedral town society, and +had solicited to be taken beside her on the box of the cool coach of +ceremony to which that team was harnessed. His proposal of marriage +being accepted by the lady, the commissary took his seat behind +the proprieties with great decorum, and Mrs General drove until the +commissary died. In the course of their united journey, they ran over +several people who came in the way of the proprieties; but always in a +high style and with composure. + +The commissary having been buried with all the decorations suitable to +the service (the whole team of proprieties were harnessed to his hearse, +and they all had feathers and black velvet housings with his coat of +arms in the corner), Mrs General began to inquire what quantity of dust +and ashes was deposited at the bankers’. It then transpired that the +commissary had so far stolen a march on Mrs General as to have bought +himself an annuity some years before his marriage, and to have reserved +that circumstance in mentioning, at the period of his proposal, that +his income was derived from the interest of his money. Mrs General +consequently found her means so much diminished, that, but for the +perfect regulation of her mind, she might have felt disposed to question +the accuracy of that portion of the late service which had declared that +the commissary could take nothing away with him. + +In this state of affairs it occurred to Mrs General, that she might +‘form the mind,’ and eke the manners of some young lady of distinction. +Or, that she might harness the proprieties to the carriage of some rich +young heiress or widow, and become at once the driver and guard of such +vehicle through the social mazes. Mrs General’s communication of this +idea to her clerical and commissariat connection was so warmly applauded +that, but for the lady’s undoubted merit, it might have appeared as +though they wanted to get rid of her. Testimonials representing Mrs +General as a prodigy of piety, learning, virtue, and gentility, were +lavishly contributed from influential quarters; and one venerable +archdeacon even shed tears in recording his testimony to her perfections +(described to him by persons on whom he could rely), though he had never +had the honour and moral gratification of setting eyes on Mrs General in +all his life. + +Thus delegated on her mission, as it were by Church and State, Mrs +General, who had always occupied high ground, felt in a condition to +keep it, and began by putting herself up at a very high figure. An +interval of some duration elapsed, in which there was no bid for Mrs +General. At length a county-widower, with a daughter of fourteen, opened +negotiations with the lady; and as it was a part either of the native +dignity or of the artificial policy of Mrs General (but certainly one +or the other) to comport herself as if she were much more sought than +seeking, the widower pursued Mrs General until he prevailed upon her to +form his daughter’s mind and manners. + +The execution of this trust occupied Mrs General about seven years, in +the course of which time she made the tour of Europe, and saw most of +that extensive miscellany of objects which it is essential that all +persons of polite cultivation should see with other people’s eyes, +and never with their own. When her charge was at length formed, the +marriage, not only of the young lady, but likewise of her father, the +widower, was resolved on. The widower then finding Mrs General both +inconvenient and expensive, became of a sudden almost as much affected +by her merits as the archdeacon had been, and circulated such praises +of her surpassing worth, in all quarters where he thought an opportunity +might arise of transferring the blessing to somebody else, that Mrs +General was a name more honourable than ever. + +The phoenix was to let, on this elevated perch, when Mr Dorrit, who +had lately succeeded to his property, mentioned to his bankers that he +wished to discover a lady, well-bred, accomplished, well connected, well +accustomed to good society, who was qualified at once to complete the +education of his daughters, and to be their matron or chaperon. Mr +Dorrit’s bankers, as bankers of the county-widower, instantly said, ‘Mrs +General.’ + +Pursuing the light so fortunately hit upon, and finding the concurrent +testimony of the whole of Mrs General’s acquaintance to be of the +pathetic nature already recorded, Mr Dorrit took the trouble of going +down to the county of the county-widower to see Mrs General, in whom he +found a lady of a quality superior to his highest expectations. + +‘Might I be excused,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘if I inquired--ha--what remune--’ + +‘Why, indeed,’ returned Mrs General, stopping the word, ‘it is a subject +on which I prefer to avoid entering. I have never entered on it with my +friends here; and I cannot overcome the delicacy, Mr Dorrit, with +which I have always regarded it. I am not, as I hope you are aware, a +governess--’ + +‘O dear no!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Pray, madam, do not imagine for a moment +that I think so.’ He really blushed to be suspected of it. + +Mrs General gravely inclined her head. ‘I cannot, therefore, put a price +upon services which it is a pleasure to me to render if I can render +them spontaneously, but which I could not render in mere return for any +consideration. Neither do I know how, or where, to find a case parallel +to my own. It is peculiar.’ + +No doubt. But how then (Mr Dorrit not unnaturally hinted) could the +subject be approached? + +‘I cannot object,’ said Mrs General--‘though even that is disagreeable +to me--to Mr Dorrit’s inquiring, in confidence of my friends here, what +amount they have been accustomed, at quarterly intervals, to pay to my +credit at my bankers’.’ + +Mr Dorrit bowed his acknowledgements. + +‘Permit me to add,’ said Mrs General, ‘that beyond this, I can never +resume the topic. Also that I can accept no second or inferior position. +If the honour were proposed to me of becoming known to Mr Dorrit’s +family--I think two daughters were mentioned?--’ + +‘Two daughters.’ + +‘I could only accept it on terms of perfect equality, as a companion, +protector, Mentor, and friend.’ + +Mr Dorrit, in spite of his sense of his importance, felt as if it would +be quite a kindness in her to accept it on any conditions. He almost +said as much. + +‘I think,’ repeated Mrs General, ‘two daughters were mentioned?’ + +‘Two daughters,’ said Mr Dorrit again. + +‘It would therefore,’ said Mrs General, ‘be necessary to add a third +more to the payment (whatever its amount may prove to be), which my +friends here have been accustomed to make to my bankers’.’ + +Mr Dorrit lost no time in referring the delicate question to the +county-widower, and finding that he had been accustomed to pay three +hundred pounds a-year to the credit of Mrs General, arrived, without any +severe strain on his arithmetic, at the conclusion that he himself must +pay four. Mrs General being an article of that lustrous surface which +suggests that it is worth any money, he made a formal proposal to be +allowed to have the honour and pleasure of regarding her as a member of +his family. Mrs General conceded that high privilege, and here she was. + +In person, Mrs General, including her skirts which had much to do with +it, was of a dignified and imposing appearance; ample, rustling, gravely +voluminous; always upright behind the proprieties. She might have +been taken--had been taken--to the top of the Alps and the bottom of +Herculaneum, without disarranging a fold in her dress, or displacing +a pin. If her countenance and hair had rather a floury appearance, as +though from living in some transcendently genteel Mill, it was rather +because she was a chalky creation altogether, than because she mended +her complexion with violet powder, or had turned grey. If her eyes had +no expression, it was probably because they had nothing to express. If +she had few wrinkles, it was because her mind had never traced its name +or any other inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, blown-out woman, who +had never lighted well. + +Mrs General had no opinions. Her way of forming a mind was to prevent it +from forming opinions. She had a little circular set of mental grooves +or rails on which she started little trains of other people’s opinions, +which never overtook one another, and never got anywhere. Even her +propriety could not dispute that there was impropriety in the world; but +Mrs General’s way of getting rid of it was to put it out of sight, and +make believe that there was no such thing. This was another of her ways +of forming a mind--to cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, +lock them up, and say they had no existence. It was the easiest way, +and, beyond all comparison, the properest. + +Mrs General was not to be told of anything shocking. Accidents, +miseries, and offences, were never to be mentioned before her. Passion +was to go to sleep in the presence of Mrs General, and blood was to +change to milk and water. The little that was left in the world, +when all these deductions were made, it was Mrs General’s province to +varnish. In that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of +brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every +object that came under consideration. The more cracked it was, the more +Mrs General varnished it. + +There was varnish in Mrs General’s voice, varnish in Mrs General’s +touch, an atmosphere of varnish round Mrs General’s figure. Mrs +General’s dreams ought to have been varnished--if she had any--lying +asleep in the arms of the good Saint Bernard, with the feathery snow +falling on his house-top. + + + + +CHAPTER 3. On the Road + + +The bright morning sun dazzled the eyes, the snow had ceased, the mists +had vanished, the mountain air was so clear and light that the +new sensation of breathing it was like the having entered on a new +existence. To help the delusion, the solid ground itself seemed gone, +and the mountain, a shining waste of immense white heaps and masses, to +be a region of cloud floating between the blue sky above and the earth +far below. + +Some dark specks in the snow, like knots upon a little thread, beginning +at the convent door and winding away down the descent in broken lengths +which were not yet pieced together, showed where the Brethren were at +work in several places clearing the track. Already the snow had begun to +be foot-thawed again about the door. Mules were busily brought out, tied +to the rings in the wall, and laden; strings of bells were buckled +on, burdens were adjusted, the voices of drivers and riders sounded +musically. Some of the earliest had even already resumed their journey; +and, both on the level summit by the dark water near the convent, and on +the downward way of yesterday’s ascent, little moving figures of men and +mules, reduced to miniatures by the immensity around, went with a clear +tinkling of bells and a pleasant harmony of tongues. + +In the supper-room of last night, a new fire, piled upon the feathery +ashes of the old one, shone upon a homely breakfast of loaves, butter, +and milk. It also shone on the courier of the Dorrit family, making tea +for his party from a supply he had brought up with him, together with +several other small stores which were chiefly laid in for the use of the +strong body of inconvenience. Mr Gowan and Blandois of Paris had already +breakfasted, and were walking up and down by the lake, smoking their +cigars. + +‘Gowan, eh?’ muttered Tip, otherwise Edward Dorrit, Esquire, turning +over the leaves of the book, when the courier had left them to +breakfast. ‘Then Gowan is the name of a puppy, that’s all I have got to +say! If it was worth my while, I’d pull his nose. But it isn’t worth my +while--fortunately for him. How’s his wife, Amy? I suppose you know. +You generally know things of that sort.’ + +‘She is better, Edward. But they are not going to-day.’ + +‘Oh! They are not going to-day! Fortunately for that fellow too,’ said +Tip, ‘or he and I might have come into collision.’ + +‘It is thought better here that she should lie quiet to-day, and not be +fatigued and shaken by the ride down until to-morrow.’ + +‘With all my heart. But you talk as if you had been nursing her. You +haven’t been relapsing into (Mrs General is not here) into old habits, +have you, Amy?’ + +He asked her the question with a sly glance of observation at Miss +Fanny, and at his father too. + +‘I have only been in to ask her if I could do anything for her, Tip,’ +said Little Dorrit. + +‘You needn’t call me Tip, Amy child,’ returned that young gentleman +with a frown; ‘because that’s an old habit, and one you may as well lay +aside.’ + +‘I didn’t mean to say so, Edward dear. I forgot. It was so natural once, +that it seemed at the moment the right word.’ + +‘Oh yes!’ Miss Fanny struck in. ‘Natural, and right word, and once, and +all the rest of it! Nonsense, you little thing! I know perfectly well +why you have been taking such an interest in this Mrs Gowan. You can’t +blind _me_.’ + +‘I will not try to, Fanny. Don’t be angry.’ + +‘Oh! angry!’ returned that young lady with a flounce. ‘I have no +patience’ (which indeed was the truth). + +‘Pray, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, raising his eyebrows, ‘what do you mean? +Explain yourself.’ + +‘Oh! Never mind, Pa,’ replied Miss Fanny, ‘it’s no great matter. +Amy will understand me. She knew, or knew of, this Mrs Gowan before +yesterday, and she may as well admit that she did.’ + +‘My child,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, ‘has your +sister--any--ha--authority for this curious statement?’ + +‘However meek we are,’ Miss Fanny struck in before she could answer, ‘we +don’t go creeping into people’s rooms on the tops of cold mountains, +and sitting perishing in the frost with people, unless we know something +about them beforehand. It’s not very hard to divine whose friend Mrs +Gowan is.’ + +‘Whose friend?’ inquired her father. + +‘Pa, I am sorry to say,’ returned Miss Fanny, who had by this time +succeeded in goading herself into a state of much ill-usage and +grievance, which she was often at great pains to do: ‘that I believe her +to be a friend of that very objectionable and unpleasant person, who, +with a total absence of all delicacy, which our experience might have +led us to expect from him, insulted us and outraged our feelings in +so public and wilful a manner on an occasion to which it is understood +among us that we will not more pointedly allude.’ + +‘Amy, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, tempering a bland severity with a +dignified affection, ‘is this the case?’ + +Little Dorrit mildly answered, yes it was. + +‘Yes it is!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘Of course! I said so! And now, Pa, I do +declare once for all’--this young lady was in the habit of declaring the +same thing once for all every day of her life, and even several times in +a day--‘that this is shameful! I do declare once for all that it ought +to be put a stop to. Is it not enough that we have gone through what +is only known to ourselves, but are we to have it thrown in our faces, +perseveringly and systematically, by the very person who should spare +our feelings most? Are we to be exposed to this unnatural conduct every +moment of our lives? Are we never to be permitted to forget? I say +again, it is absolutely infamous!’ + +‘Well, Amy,’ observed her brother, shaking his head, ‘you know I stand +by you whenever I can, and on most occasions. But I must say, that, upon +my soul, I do consider it rather an unaccountable mode of showing your +sisterly affection, that you should back up a man who treated me in the +most ungentlemanly way in which one man can treat another. And who,’ he +added convincingly, ‘must be a low-minded thief, you know, or he never +could have conducted himself as he did.’ + +‘And see,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘see what is involved in this! Can we ever +hope to be respected by our servants? Never. Here are our two women, and +Pa’s valet, and a footman, and a courier, and all sorts of dependents, +and yet in the midst of these, we are to have one of ourselves rushing +about with tumblers of cold water, like a menial! Why, a policeman,’ +said Miss Fanny, ‘if a beggar had a fit in the street, could but go +plunging about with tumblers, as this very Amy did in this very room +before our very eyes last night!’ + +‘I don’t so much mind that, once in a way,’ remarked Mr Edward; ‘but +your Clennam, as he thinks proper to call himself, is another thing.’ + +‘He is part of the same thing,’ returned Miss Fanny, ‘and of a piece +with all the rest. He obtruded himself upon us in the first instance. +We never wanted him. I always showed him, for one, that I could +have dispensed with his company with the greatest pleasure. +He then commits that gross outrage upon our feelings, which he never +could or would have committed but for the delight he took in exposing +us; and then we are to be demeaned for the service of his friends! Why, +I don’t wonder at this Mr Gowan’s conduct towards you. What else was +to be expected when he was enjoying our past misfortunes--gloating over +them at the moment!’ + +‘Father--Edward--no indeed!’ pleaded Little Dorrit. ‘Neither Mr nor Mrs +Gowan had ever heard our name. They were, and they are, quite ignorant +of our history.’ + +‘So much the worse,’ retorted Fanny, determined not to admit anything in +extenuation, ‘for then you have no excuse. If they had known about us, +you might have felt yourself called upon to conciliate them. That would +have been a weak and ridiculous mistake, but I can respect a mistake, +whereas I can’t respect a wilful and deliberate abasing of those who +should be nearest and dearest to us. No. I can’t respect that. I can do +nothing but denounce that.’ + +‘I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘though you +are so hard with me.’ + +‘Then you should be more careful, Amy,’ returned her sister. ‘If you do +such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I happened to +have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar circumstances +that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I should think myself +bound to consider at every step, “Am I going, ignorantly, to compromise +any near and dear relations?” That is what I fancy _I_ should do, if it +was _my_ case.’ + +Mr Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by his +authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom. + +‘My dear,’ said he to his younger daughter, ‘I beg you to--ha--to say +no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not without +considerable reason. You have now a--hum--a great position to support. +That great position is not occupied by yourself alone, but by--ha--by +me, and--ha hum--by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent upon all people in an +exalted position, but it is particularly so on this family, for reasons +which I--ha--will not dwell upon, to make themselves respected. To be +vigilant in making themselves respected. Dependants, to respect us, must +be--ha--kept at a distance and--hum--kept down. Down. Therefore, your +not exposing yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to +have at any time dispensed with their services and performed them for +yourself, is--ha--highly important.’ + +‘Why, who can doubt it?’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘It’s the essence of +everything.’ + +‘Fanny,’ returned her father, grandiloquently, ‘give me leave, my dear. +We then come to--ha--to Mr Clennam. I am free to say that I do not, Amy, +share your sister’s sentiments--that is to say altogether--hum-- +altogether--in reference to Mr Clennam. I am content to regard that +individual in the light of--ha--generally--a well-behaved person. Hum. +A well-behaved person. Nor will I inquire whether Mr Clennam did, at any +time, obtrude himself on--ha--my society. He knew my society to +be--hum--sought, and his plea might be that he regarded me in the light +of a public character. But there were circumstances attending +my--ha--slight knowledge of Mr Clennam (it was very slight), which,’ +here Mr Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, ‘would render it +highly indelicate in Mr Clennam to--ha--to seek to renew communication +with me or with any member of my family under existing circumstances. +If Mr Clennam has sufficient delicacy to perceive the impropriety of +any such attempt, I am bound as a responsible gentleman to--ha--defer +to that delicacy on his part. If, on the other hand, Mr Clennam has not +that delicacy, I cannot for a moment--ha--hold any correspondence with +so--hum--coarse a mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr Clennam +is put altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do +with him or he with us. Ha--Mrs General!’ + +The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at the +breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly afterwards, the +courier announced that the valet, and the footman, and the two maids, +and the four guides, and the fourteen mules, were in readiness; so the +breakfast party went out to the convent door to join the cavalcade. + +Mr Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr Blandois was on +the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly pulled +off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had even a more +sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow, than he had +in the fire-light over-night. But, as both her father and her sister +received his homage with some favour, she refrained from expressing any +distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a new blemish derived from +her prison birth. + +Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent was +yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr Blandois, +backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high from the +chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking +down after them. Long after he was a mere black stick in the snow, she +felt as though she could yet see that smile of his, that high nose, and +those eyes that were too near it. And even after that, when the convent +was gone and some light morning clouds veiled the pass below it, the +ghastly skeleton arms by the wayside seemed to be all pointing up at +him. + +More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to +melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they came +down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again the streams +descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were refreshing to drink at, +again they came among the pine-trees, the rocky rivulets, the verdant +heights and dales, the wooden chalets and rough zigzag fences of Swiss +country. Sometimes the way so widened that she and her father could +ride abreast. And then to look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and +broadcloths, rich, free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving +far away among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before +them to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough. + +Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore the +clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a sacrifice to +the family credit, and went where he was taken, with a certain patient +animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that the air and change did +him good. In all other respects, save one, he shone with no light but +such as was reflected from his brother. His brother’s greatness, wealth, +freedom, and grandeur, pleased him without any reference to himself. +Silent and retiring, he had no use for speech when he could hear his +brother speak; no desire to be waited on, so that the servants devoted +themselves to his brother. The only noticeable change he originated in +himself, was an alteration in his manner to his younger niece. Every day +it refined more and more into a marked respect, very rarely shown by age +to youth, and still more rarely susceptible, one would have said, of the +fitness with which he invested it. On those occasions when Miss Fanny +did declare once for all, he would take the next opportunity of baring +his grey head before his younger niece, and of helping her to alight, +or handing her to the carriage, or showing her any other attention, with +the profoundest deference. Yet it never appeared misplaced or forced, +being always heartily simple, spontaneous, and genuine. Neither would he +ever consent, even at his brother’s request, to be helped to any place +before her, or to take precedence of her in anything. So jealous was he +of her being respected, that, on this very journey down from the Great +Saint Bernard, he took sudden and violent umbrage at the footman’s being +remiss to hold her stirrup, though standing near when she dismounted; +and unspeakably astonished the whole retinue by charging at him on a +hard-headed mule, riding him into a corner, and threatening to trample +him to death. + +They were a goodly company, and the Innkeepers all but worshipped them. +Wherever they went, their importance preceded them in the person of the +courier riding before, to see that the rooms of state were ready. He was +the herald of the family procession. The great travelling-carriage came +next: containing, inside, Mr Dorrit, Miss Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit, +and Mrs General; outside, some of the retainers, and (in fine weather) +Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for whom the box was reserved. Then came +the chariot containing Frederick Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty place +occupied by Edward Dorrit, Esquire, in wet weather. Then came the +fourgon with the rest of the retainers, the heavy baggage, and as much +as it could carry of the mud and dust which the other vehicles left +behind. + +These equipages adorned the yard of the hotel at Martigny, on the return +of the family from their mountain excursion. Other vehicles were there, +much company being on the road, from the patched Italian Vettura--like +the body of a swing from an English fair put upon a wooden tray on +wheels, and having another wooden tray without wheels put atop of it--to +the trim English carriage. But there was another adornment of the +hotel which Mr Dorrit had not bargained for. Two strange travellers +embellished one of his rooms. + +The Innkeeper, hat in hand in the yard, swore to the courier that he was +blighted, that he was desolated, that he was profoundly afflicted, that +he was the most miserable and unfortunate of beasts, that he had the +head of a wooden pig. He ought never to have made the concession, he +said, but the very genteel lady had so passionately prayed him for the +accommodation of that room to dine in, only for a little half-hour, that +he had been vanquished. The little half-hour was expired, the lady and +gentleman were taking their little dessert and half-cup of coffee, the +note was paid, the horses were ordered, they would depart immediately; +but, owing to an unhappy destiny and the curse of Heaven, they were not +yet gone. + +Nothing could exceed Mr Dorrit’s indignation, as he turned at the foot +of the staircase on hearing these apologies. He felt that the family +dignity was struck at by an assassin’s hand. He had a sense of his +dignity, which was of the most exquisite nature. He could detect a +design upon it when nobody else had any perception of the fact. His +life was made an agony by the number of fine scalpels that he felt to be +incessantly engaged in dissecting his dignity. + +‘Is it possible, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, reddening excessively, ‘that you +have--ha--had the audacity to place one of my rooms at the disposition +of any other person?’ + +Thousands of pardons! It was the host’s profound misfortune to have been +overcome by that too genteel lady. He besought Monseigneur not to enrage +himself. He threw himself on Monseigneur for clemency. If Monseigneur +would have the distinguished goodness to occupy the other salon +especially reserved for him, for but five minutes, all would go well. + +‘No, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not occupy any salon. I will leave +your house without eating or drinking, or setting foot in it. How do +you dare to act like this? Who am I that you--ha--separate me from other +gentlemen?’ + +Alas! The host called all the universe to witness that Monseigneur was +the most amiable of the whole body of nobility, the most important, +the most estimable, the most honoured. If he separated Monseigneur from +others, it was only because he was more distinguished, more cherished, +more generous, more renowned. + +‘Don’t tell me so, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit, in a mighty heat. ‘You have +affronted me. You have heaped insults upon me. How dare you? Explain +yourself.’ + +Ah, just Heaven, then, how could the host explain himself when he had +nothing more to explain; when he had only to apologise, and confide +himself to the so well-known magnanimity of Monseigneur! + +‘I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, panting with anger, ‘that you +separate me--ha--from other gentlemen; that you make distinctions +between me and other gentlemen of fortune and station. I demand of you, +why? I wish to know on--ha--what authority, on whose authority. Reply +sir. Explain. Answer why.’ + +Permit the landlord humbly to submit to Monsieur the Courier then, that +Monseigneur, ordinarily so gracious, enraged himself without cause. +There was no why. Monsieur the Courier would represent to Monseigneur, +that he deceived himself in suspecting that there was any why, but the +why his devoted servant had already had the honour to present to him. +The very genteel lady-- + +‘Silence!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Hold your tongue! I will hear no more +of the very genteel lady; I will hear no more of you. Look at this +family--my family--a family more genteel than any lady. You have treated +this family with disrespect; you have been insolent to this family. I’ll +ruin you. Ha--send for the horses, pack the carriages, I’ll not set foot +in this man’s house again!’ + +No one had interfered in the dispute, which was beyond the French +colloquial powers of Edward Dorrit, Esquire, and scarcely within the +province of the ladies. Miss Fanny, however, now supported her father +with great bitterness; declaring, in her native tongue, that it was +quite clear there was something special in this man’s impertinence; +and that she considered it important that he should be, by some means, +forced to give up his authority for making distinctions between that +family and other wealthy families. What the reasons of his presumption +could be, she was at a loss to imagine; but reasons he must have, and +they ought to be torn from him. + +All the guides, mule-drivers, and idlers in the yard, had made +themselves parties to the angry conference, and were much impressed by +the courier’s now bestirring himself to get the carriages out. With the +aid of some dozen people to each wheel, this was done at a great cost of +noise; and then the loading was proceeded with, pending the arrival of +the horses from the post-house. + +But the very genteel lady’s English chariot being already horsed and at +the inn-door, the landlord had slipped up-stairs to represent his hard +case. This was notified to the yard by his now coming down the staircase +in attendance on the gentleman and the lady, and by his pointing out the +offended majesty of Mr Dorrit to them with a significant motion of his +hand. + +‘Beg your pardon,’ said the gentleman, detaching himself from the +lady, and coming forward. ‘I am a man of few words and a bad hand at an +explanation--but lady here is extremely anxious that there should be no +Row. Lady--a mother of mine, in point of fact--wishes me to say that she +hopes no Row.’ + +Mr Dorrit, still panting under his injury, saluted the gentleman, and +saluted the lady, in a distant, final, and invincible manner. + +‘No, but really--here, old feller; you!’ This was the gentleman’s way of +appealing to Edward Dorrit, Esquire, on whom he pounced as a great and +providential relief. ‘Let you and I try to make this all right. Lady so +very much wishes no Row.’ + +Edward Dorrit, Esquire, led a little apart by the button, assumed a +diplomatic expression of countenance in replying, ‘Why you must confess, +that when you bespeak a lot of rooms beforehand, and they belong to you, +it’s not pleasant to find other people in ‘em.’ + +‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know it isn’t. I admit it. Still, let you and I +try to make it all right, and avoid Row. The fault is not this chap’s +at all, but my mother’s. Being a remarkably fine woman with no bigodd +nonsense about her--well educated, too--she was too many for this chap. +Regularly pocketed him.’ + +‘If that’s the case--’ Edward Dorrit, Esquire, began. + +‘Assure you ‘pon my soul ‘tis the case. Consequently,’ said the other +gentleman, retiring on his main position, ‘why Row?’ + +‘Edmund,’ said the lady from the doorway, ‘I hope you have explained, +or are explaining, to the satisfaction of this gentleman and his family +that the civil landlord is not to blame?’ + +‘Assure you, ma’am,’ returned Edmund, ‘perfectly paralysing myself with +trying it on.’ He then looked steadfastly at Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for +some seconds, and suddenly added, in a burst of confidence, ‘Old feller! +_Is_ it all right?’ + +‘I don’t know, after all,’ said the lady, gracefully advancing a step or +two towards Mr Dorrit, ‘but that I had better say myself, at once, +that I assured this good man I took all the consequences on myself of +occupying one of a stranger’s suite of rooms during his absence, for +just as much (or as little) time as I could dine in. I had no idea the +rightful owner would come back so soon, nor had I any idea that he +had come back, or I should have hastened to make restoration of my +ill-gotten chamber, and to have offered my explanation and apology. I +trust in saying this--’ + +For a moment the lady, with a glass at her eye, stood transfixed and +speechless before the two Miss Dorrits. At the same moment, Miss Fanny, +in the foreground of a grand pictorial composition, formed by the +family, the family equipages, and the family servants, held her sister +tight under one arm to detain her on the spot, and with the other arm +fanned herself with a distinguished air, and negligently surveyed the +lady from head to foot. + +The lady, recovering herself quickly--for it was Mrs Merdle and she was +not easily dashed--went on to add that she trusted in saying this, she +apologised for her boldness, and restored this well-behaved landlord to +the favour that was so very valuable to him. Mr Dorrit, on the altar of +whose dignity all this was incense, made a gracious reply; and said +that his people should--ha--countermand his horses, and he +would--hum--overlook what he had at first supposed to be an affront, +but now regarded as an honour. Upon this the bosom bent to him; and its +owner, with a wonderful command of feature, addressed a winning smile of +adieu to the two sisters, as young ladies of fortune in whose favour she +was much prepossessed, and whom she had never had the gratification of +seeing before. + +Not so, however, Mr Sparkler. This gentleman, becoming transfixed at +the same moment as his lady-mother, could not by any means unfix himself +again, but stood stiffly staring at the whole composition with Miss +Fanny in the Foreground. On his mother saying, ‘Edmund, we are quite +ready; will you give me your arm?’ he seemed, by the motion of his lips, +to reply with some remark comprehending the form of words in which his +shining talents found the most frequent utterance, but he relaxed no +muscle. So fixed was his figure, that it would have been matter of some +difficulty to bend him sufficiently to get him in the carriage-door, +if he had not received the timely assistance of a maternal pull from +within. He was no sooner within than the pad of the little window in the +back of the chariot disappeared, and his eye usurped its place. There +it remained as long as so small an object was discernible, and probably +much longer, staring (as though something inexpressibly surprising +should happen to a codfish) like an ill-executed eye in a large locket. + +This encounter was so highly agreeable to Miss Fanny, and gave her +so much to think of with triumph afterwards, that it softened her +asperities exceedingly. When the procession was again in motion next +day, she occupied her place in it with a new gaiety; and showed such a +flow of spirits indeed, that Mrs General looked rather surprised. + +Little Dorrit was glad to be found no fault with, and to see that Fanny +was pleased; but her part in the procession was a musing part, and a +quiet one. Sitting opposite her father in the travelling-carriage, and +recalling the old Marshalsea room, her present existence was a dream. +All that she saw was new and wonderful, but it was not real; it seemed +to her as if those visions of mountains and picturesque countries might +melt away at any moment, and the carriage, turning some abrupt corner, +bring up with a jolt at the old Marshalsea gate. + +To have no work to do was strange, but not half so strange as having +glided into a corner where she had no one to think for, nothing to plan +and contrive, no cares of others to load herself with. Strange as that +was, it was far stranger yet to find a space between herself and her +father, where others occupied themselves in taking care of him, and +where she was never expected to be. At first, this was so much more +unlike her old experience than even the mountains themselves, that she +had been unable to resign herself to it, and had tried to retain her +old place about him. But he had spoken to her alone, and had said that +people--ha--people in an exalted position, my dear, must scrupulously +exact respect from their dependents; and that for her, his daughter, +Miss Amy Dorrit, of the sole remaining branch of the Dorrits of +Dorsetshire, to be known to--hum--to occupy herself in fulfilling the +functions of--ha hum--a valet, would be incompatible with that respect. +Therefore, my dear, he--ha--he laid his parental injunctions upon +her, to remember that she was a lady, who had now to conduct herself +with--hum--a proper pride, and to preserve the rank of a lady; +and consequently he requested her to abstain from doing what would +occasion--ha--unpleasant and derogatory remarks. She had obeyed without +a murmur. Thus it had been brought about that she now sat in her corner +of the luxurious carriage with her little patient hands folded before +her, quite displaced even from the last point of the old standing ground +in life on which her feet had lingered. + +It was from this position that all she saw appeared unreal; the more +surprising the scenes, the more they resembled the unreality of her +own inner life as she went through its vacant places all day long. The +gorges of the Simplon, its enormous depths and thundering waterfalls, +the wonderful road, the points of danger where a loose wheel or a +faltering horse would have been destruction, the descent into Italy, the +opening of that beautiful land as the rugged mountain-chasm widened and +let them out from a gloomy and dark imprisonment--all a dream--only the +old mean Marshalsea a reality. Nay, even the old mean Marshalsea was +shaken to its foundations when she pictured it without her father. She +could scarcely believe that the prisoners were still lingering in the +close yard, that the mean rooms were still every one tenanted, and that +the turnkey still stood in the Lodge letting people in and out, all just +as she well knew it to be. + +With a remembrance of her father’s old life in prison hanging about her +like the burden of a sorrowful tune, Little Dorrit would wake from a +dream of her birth-place into a whole day’s dream. The painted room in +which she awoke, often a humbled state-chamber in a dilapidated palace, +would begin it; with its wild red autumnal vine-leaves overhanging the +glass, its orange-trees on the cracked white terrace outside the window, +a group of monks and peasants in the little street below, misery and +magnificence wrestling with each other upon every rood of ground in +the prospect, no matter how widely diversified, and misery throwing +magnificence with the strength of fate. To this would succeed a +labyrinth of bare passages and pillared galleries, with the family +procession already preparing in the quadrangle below, through the +carriages and luggage being brought together by the servants for the +day’s journey. Then breakfast in another painted chamber, damp-stained +and of desolate proportions; and then the departure, which, to her +timidity and sense of not being grand enough for her place in the +ceremonies, was always an uneasy thing. For then the courier (who +himself would have been a foreign gentleman of high mark in the +Marshalsea) would present himself to report that all was ready; and then +her father’s valet would pompously induct him into his travelling-cloak; +and then Fanny’s maid, and her own maid (who was a weight on Little +Dorrit’s mind--absolutely made her cry at first, she knew so little +what to do with her), would be in attendance; and then her brother’s man +would complete his master’s equipment; and then her father would give +his arm to Mrs General, and her uncle would give his to her, and, +escorted by the landlord and Inn servants, they would swoop down-stairs. +There, a crowd would be collected to see them enter their carriages, +which, amidst much bowing, and begging, and prancing, and lashing, and +clattering, they would do; and so they would be driven madly through +narrow unsavoury streets, and jerked out at the town gate. + +Among the day’s unrealities would be roads where the bright red vines +were looped and garlanded together on trees for many miles; woods of +olives; white villages and towns on hill-sides, lovely without, but +frightful in their dirt and poverty within; crosses by the way; deep +blue lakes with fairy islands, and clustering boats with awnings of +bright colours and sails of beautiful forms; vast piles of building +mouldering to dust; hanging-gardens where the weeds had grown so strong +that their stems, like wedges driven home, had split the arch and rent +the wall; stone-terraced lanes, with the lizards running into and out +of every chink; beggars of all sorts everywhere: pitiful, picturesque, +hungry, merry; children beggars and aged beggars. Often at +posting-houses and other halting places, these miserable creatures would +appear to her the only realities of the day; and many a time, when the +money she had brought to give them was all given away, she would sit +with her folded hands, thoughtfully looking after some diminutive girl +leading her grey father, as if the sight reminded her of something in +the days that were gone. + +Again, there would be places where they stayed the week together in +splendid rooms, had banquets every day, rode out among heaps of wonders, +walked through miles of palaces, and rested in dark corners of great +churches; where there were winking lamps of gold and silver among +pillars and arches, kneeling figures dotted about at confessionals and +on the pavements; where there was the mist and scent of incense; where +there were pictures, fantastic images, gaudy altars, great heights and +distances, all softly lighted through stained glass, and the massive +curtains that hung in the doorways. From these cities they would go on +again, by the roads of vines and olives, through squalid villages, where +there was not a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls, not a window +with a whole inch of glass or paper; where there seemed to be nothing to +support life, nothing to eat, nothing to make, nothing to grow, nothing +to hope, nothing to do but die. + +Again they would come to whole towns of palaces, whose proper inmates +were all banished, and which were all changed into barracks: troops +of idle soldiers leaning out of the state windows, where their +accoutrements hung drying on the marble architecture, and showing to the +mind like hosts of rats who were (happily) eating away the props of the +edifices that supported them, and must soon, with them, be smashed on +the heads of the other swarms of soldiers and the swarms of priests, and +the swarms of spies, who were all the ill-looking population left to be +ruined, in the streets below. + +Through such scenes, the family procession moved on to Venice. And here +it dispersed for a time, as they were to live in Venice some few months +in a palace (itself six times as big as the whole Marshalsea) on the +Grand Canal. + +In this crowning unreality, where all the streets were paved with water, +and where the deathlike stillness of the days and nights was broken by +no sound but the softened ringing of church-bells, the rippling of +the current, and the cry of the gondoliers turning the corners of the +flowing streets, Little Dorrit, quite lost by her task being done, sat +down to muse. The family began a gay life, went here and there, and +turned night into day; but she was timid of joining in their gaieties, +and only asked leave to be left alone. + +Sometimes she would step into one of the gondolas that were always kept +in waiting, moored to painted posts at the door--when she could escape +from the attendance of that oppressive maid, who was her mistress, and +a very hard one--and would be taken all over the strange city. Social +people in other gondolas began to ask each other who the little solitary +girl was whom they passed, sitting in her boat with folded hands, +looking so pensively and wonderingly about her. Never thinking that +it would be worth anybody’s while to notice her or her doings, Little +Dorrit, in her quiet, scared, lost manner, went about the city none the +less. + +But her favourite station was the balcony of her own room, overhanging +the canal, with other balconies below, and none above. It was of massive +stone darkened by ages, built in a wild fancy which came from the East +to that collection of wild fancies; and Little Dorrit was little indeed, +leaning on the broad-cushioned ledge, and looking over. As she liked no +place of an evening half so well, she soon began to be watched for, and +many eyes in passing gondolas were raised, and many people said, There +was the little figure of the English girl who was always alone. + +Such people were not realities to the little figure of the English girl; +such people were all unknown to her. She would watch the sunset, in its +long low lines of purple and red, and its burning flush high up into +the sky: so glowing on the buildings, and so lightening their structure, +that it made them look as if their strong walls were transparent, and +they shone from within. She would watch those glories expire; and then, +after looking at the black gondolas underneath, taking guests to music +and dancing, would raise her eyes to the shining stars. Was there no +party of her own, in other times, on which the stars had shone? To think +of that old gate now! + +She would think of that old gate, and of herself sitting at it in the +dead of the night, pillowing Maggy’s head; and of other places and of +other scenes associated with those different times. And then she would +lean upon her balcony, and look over at the water, as though they all +lay underneath it. When she got to that, she would musingly watch its +running, as if, in the general vision, it might run dry, and show her +the prison again, and herself, and the old room, and the old inmates, +and the old visitors: all lasting realities that had never changed. + + + + +CHAPTER 4. A Letter from Little Dorrit + + +Dear Mr Clennam, + +I write to you from my own room at Venice, thinking you will be glad to +hear from me. But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am +to write to you; for everything about you is as you have been accustomed +to see it, and you miss nothing--unless it should be me, which can only +be for a very little while together and very seldom--while everything in +my life is so strange, and I miss so much. + +When we were in Switzerland, which appears to have been years ago, +though it was only weeks, I met young Mrs Gowan, who was on a mountain +excursion like ourselves. She told me she was very well and very happy. +She sent you the message, by me, that she thanked you affectionately and +would never forget you. She was quite confiding with me, and I loved her +almost as soon as I spoke to her. But there is nothing singular in that; +who could help loving so beautiful and winning a creature! I could not +wonder at any one loving her. No indeed. + +It will not make you uneasy on Mrs Gowan’s account, I hope--for I +remember that you said you had the interest of a true friend in her--if +I tell you that I wish she could have married some one better suited to +her. Mr Gowan seems fond of her, and of course she is very fond of him, +but I thought he was not earnest enough--I don’t mean in that respect--I +mean in anything. I could not keep it out of my mind that if I was Mrs +Gowan (what a change that would be, and how I must alter to become like +her!) I should feel that I was rather lonely and lost, for the want of +some one who was steadfast and firm in purpose. I even thought she felt +this want a little, almost without knowing it. But mind you are not made +uneasy by this, for she was ‘very well and very happy.’ And she looked +most beautiful. + +I expect to meet her again before long, and indeed have been expecting +for some days past to see her here. I will ever be as good a friend to +her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr Clennam, I dare say you think little +of having been a friend to me when I had no other (not that I have any +other now, for I have made no new friends), but I think much of it, and +I never can forget it. + +I wish I knew--but it is best for no one to write to me--how Mr and Mrs +Plornish prosper in the business which my dear father bought for them, +and that old Mr Nandy lives happily with them and his two grandchildren, +and sings all his songs over and over again. I cannot quite keep back +the tears from my eyes when I think of my poor Maggy, and of the blank +she must have felt at first, however kind they all are to her, without +her Little Mother. Will you go and tell her, as a strict secret, with my +love, that she never can have regretted our separation more than I have +regretted it? And will you tell them all that I have thought of them +every day, and that my heart is faithful to them everywhere? O, if you +could know how faithful, you would almost pity me for being so far away +and being so grand! + +You will be glad, I am sure, to know that my dear father is very well +in health, and that all these changes are highly beneficial to him, and +that he is very different indeed from what he used to be when you used +to see him. There is an improvement in my uncle too, I think, though he +never complained of old, and never exults now. Fanny is very graceful, +quick, and clever. It is natural to her to be a lady; she has adapted +herself to our new fortunes with wonderful ease. + +This reminds me that I have not been able to do so, and that I sometimes +almost despair of ever being able to do so. I find that I cannot learn. +Mrs General is always with us, and we speak French and speak Italian, +and she takes pains to form us in many ways. When I say we speak French +and Italian, I mean they do. As for me, I am so slow that I scarcely +get on at all. As soon as I begin to plan, and think, and try, all my +planning, thinking, and trying go in old directions, and I begin to feel +careful again about the expenses of the day, and about my dear father, +and about my work, and then I remember with a start that there are no +such cares left, and that in itself is so new and improbable that it +sets me wandering again. I should not have the courage to mention this +to any one but you. + +It is the same with all these new countries and wonderful sights. +They are very beautiful, and they astonish me, but I am not collected +enough--not familiar enough with myself, if you can quite understand +what I mean--to have all the pleasure in them that I might have. What +I knew before them, blends with them, too, so curiously. For instance, +when we were among the mountains, I often felt (I hesitate to tell such +an idle thing, dear Mr Clennam, even to you) as if the Marshalsea must +be behind that great rock; or as if Mrs Clennam’s room where I have +worked so many days, and where I first saw you, must be just beyond that +snow. Do you remember one night when I came with Maggy to your lodging +in Covent Garden? That room I have often and often fancied I have seen +before me, travelling along for miles by the side of our carriage, when +I have looked out of the carriage-window after dark. We were shut out +that night, and sat at the iron gate, and walked about till morning. +I often look up at the stars, even from the balcony of this room, and +believe that I am in the street again, shut out with Maggy. It is the +same with people that I left in England. + +When I go about here in a gondola, I surprise myself looking into other +gondolas as if I hoped to see them. It would overcome me with joy to +see them, but I don’t think it would surprise me much, at first. In my +fanciful times, I fancy that they might be anywhere; and I almost expect +to see their dear faces on the bridges or the quays. + +Another difficulty that I have will seem very strange to you. It must +seem very strange to any one but me, and does even to me: I often feel +the old sad pity for--I need not write the word--for him. Changed as he +is, and inexpressibly blest and thankful as I always am to know it, the +old sorrowful feeling of compassion comes upon me sometimes with such +strength that I want to put my arms round his neck, tell him how I love +him, and cry a little on his breast. I should be glad after that, and +proud and happy. But I know that I must not do this; that he would not +like it, that Fanny would be angry, that Mrs General would be amazed; +and so I quiet myself. Yet in doing so, I struggle with the feeling that +I have come to be at a distance from him; and that even in the midst of +all the servants and attendants, he is deserted, and in want of me. + +Dear Mr Clennam, I have written a great deal about myself, but I must +write a little more still, or what I wanted most of all to say in this +weak letter would be left out of it. In all these foolish thoughts of +mine, which I have been so hardy as to confess to you because I know you +will understand me if anybody can, and will make more allowance for me +than anybody else would if you cannot--in all these thoughts, there is +one thought scarcely ever--never--out of my memory, and that is that +I hope you sometimes, in a quiet moment, have a thought for me. I must +tell you that as to this, I have felt, ever since I have been away, an +anxiety which I am very anxious to relieve. I have been afraid that you +may think of me in a new light, or a new character. Don’t do that, I +could not bear that--it would make me more unhappy than you can suppose. +It would break my heart to believe that you thought of me in any way +that would make me stranger to you than I was when you were so good to +me. What I have to pray and entreat of you is, that you will never think +of me as the daughter of a rich person; that you will never think of me +as dressing any better, or living any better, than when you first +knew me. That you will remember me only as the little shabby girl you +protected with so much tenderness, from whose threadbare dress you have +kept away the rain, and whose wet feet you have dried at your fire. +That you will think of me (when you think of me at all), and of my true +affection and devoted gratitude, always without change, as of + + + Your poor child, + + LITTLE DORRIT. + + +P.S.--Particularly remember that you are not to be uneasy about Mrs +Gowan. Her words were, ‘Very well and very happy.’ And she looked most +beautiful. + + + + +CHAPTER 5. Something Wrong Somewhere + + +The family had been a month or two at Venice, when Mr Dorrit, who was +much among Counts and Marquises, and had but scant leisure, set an hour +of one day apart, beforehand, for the purpose of holding some conference +with Mrs General. + +The time he had reserved in his mind arriving, he sent Mr Tinkler, his +valet, to Mrs General’s apartment (which would have absorbed about a +third of the area of the Marshalsea), to present his compliments to that +lady, and represent him as desiring the favour of an interview. It being +that period of the forenoon when the various members of the family had +coffee in their own chambers, some couple of hours before assembling at +breakfast in a faded hall which had once been sumptuous, but was now +the prey of watery vapours and a settled melancholy, Mrs General was +accessible to the valet. That envoy found her on a little square of +carpet, so extremely diminutive in reference to the size of her stone +and marble floor that she looked as if she might have had it spread for +the trying on of a ready-made pair of shoes; or as if she had come into +possession of the enchanted piece of carpet, bought for forty purses by +one of the three princes in the Arabian Nights, and had that moment been +transported on it, at a wish, into a palatial saloon with which it had +no connection. + +Mrs General, replying to the envoy, as she set down her empty +coffee-cup, that she was willing at once to proceed to Mr Dorrit’s +apartment, and spare him the trouble of coming to her (which, in his +gallantry, he had proposed), the envoy threw open the door, and +escorted Mrs General to the presence. It was quite a walk, by mysterious +staircases and corridors, from Mrs General’s apartment,--hoodwinked by +a narrow side street with a low gloomy bridge in it, and dungeon-like +opposite tenements, their walls besmeared with a thousand downward +stains and streaks, as if every crazy aperture in them had been weeping +tears of rust into the Adriatic for centuries--to Mr Dorrit’s apartment: +with a whole English house-front of window, a prospect of beautiful +church-domes rising into the blue sky sheer out of the water which +reflected them, and a hushed murmur of the Grand Canal laving the +doorways below, where his gondolas and gondoliers attended his pleasure, +drowsily swinging in a little forest of piles. + +Mr Dorrit, in a resplendent dressing-gown and cap--the dormant grub that +had so long bided its time among the Collegians had burst into a rare +butterfly--rose to receive Mrs General. A chair to Mrs General. An +easier chair, sir; what are you doing, what are you about, what do you +mean? Now, leave us! + +‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty--’ + +‘By no means,’ Mrs General interposed. ‘I was quite at your disposition. +I had had my coffee.’ + +‘--I took the liberty,’ said Mr Dorrit again, with the magnificent +placidity of one who was above correction, ‘to solicit the favour of +a little private conversation with you, because I feel rather worried +respecting my--ha--my younger daughter. You will have observed a great +difference of temperament, madam, between my two daughters?’ + +Said Mrs General in response, crossing her gloved hands (she was never +without gloves, and they never creased and always fitted), ‘There is a +great difference.’ + +‘May I ask to be favoured with your view of it?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a +deference not incompatible with majestic serenity. + +‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘has force of character and +self-reliance. Amy, none.’ + +None? O Mrs General, ask the Marshalsea stones and bars. O Mrs General, +ask the milliner who taught her to work, and the dancing-master who +taught her sister to dance. O Mrs General, Mrs General, ask me, her +father, what I owe her; and hear my testimony touching the life of this +slighted little creature from her childhood up! + +No such adjuration entered Mr. Dorrit’s head. He looked at Mrs +General, seated in her usual erect attitude on her coach-box behind the +proprieties, and he said in a thoughtful manner, ‘True, madam.’ + +‘I would not,’ said Mrs General, ‘be understood to say, observe, +that there is nothing to improve in Fanny. But there is material +there--perhaps, indeed, a little too much.’ + +‘Will you be kind enough, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to be--ha--more +explicit? I do not quite understand my elder daughter’s having--hum--too +much material. What material?’ + +‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘at present forms too many opinions. +Perfect breeding forms none, and is never demonstrative.’ + +Lest he himself should be found deficient in perfect breeding, Mr Dorrit +hastened to reply, ‘Unquestionably, madam, you are right.’ Mrs General +returned, in her emotionless and expressionless manner, ‘I believe so.’ + +‘But you are aware, my dear madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that my daughters +had the misfortune to lose their lamented mother when they were very +young; and that, in consequence of my not having been until lately +the recognised heir to my property, they have lived with me as +a comparatively poor, though always proud, gentleman, in--ha +hum--retirement!’ + +‘I do not,’ said Mrs General, ‘lose sight of the circumstance.’ + +‘Madam,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘of my daughter Fanny, under her present +guidance and with such an example constantly before her--’ + +(Mrs General shut her eyes.) + +--‘I have no misgivings. There is adaptability of character in Fanny. +But my younger daughter, Mrs General, rather worries and vexes my +thoughts. I must inform you that she has always been my favourite.’ + +‘There is no accounting,’ said Mrs General, ‘for these partialities.’ + +‘Ha--no,’ assented Mr Dorrit. ‘No. Now, madam, I am troubled by noticing +that Amy is not, so to speak, one of ourselves. She does not care to go +about with us; she is lost in the society we have here; our tastes +are evidently not her tastes. Which,’ said Mr Dorrit, summing up with +judicial gravity, ‘is to say, in other words, that there is something +wrong in--ha--Amy.’ + +‘May we incline to the supposition,’ said Mrs General, with a little +touch of varnish, ‘that something is referable to the novelty of the +position?’ + +‘Excuse me, madam,’ observed Mr Dorrit, rather quickly. ‘The daughter +of a gentleman, though--ha--himself at one time comparatively far from +affluent--comparatively--and herself reared in--hum--retirement, need +not of necessity find this position so very novel.’ + +‘True,’ said Mrs General, ‘true.’ + +‘Therefore, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty’ (he laid an +emphasis on the phrase and repeated it, as though he stipulated, with +urbane firmness, that he must not be contradicted again), ‘I took the +liberty of requesting this interview, in order that I might mention the +topic to you, and inquire how you would advise me?’ + +‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘I have conversed with Amy several +times since we have been residing here, on the general subject of the +formation of a demeanour. She has expressed herself to me as wondering +exceedingly at Venice. I have mentioned to her that it is better not to +wonder. I have pointed out to her that the celebrated Mr Eustace, the +classical tourist, did not think much of it; and that he compared the +Rialto, greatly to its disadvantage, with Westminster and Blackfriars +Bridges. I need not add, after what you have said, that I have not yet +found my arguments successful. You do me the honour to ask me what to +advise. It always appears to me (if this should prove to be a baseless +assumption, I shall be pardoned), that Mr Dorrit has been accustomed to +exercise influence over the minds of others.’ + +‘Hum--madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I have been at the head of--ha of +a considerable community. You are right in supposing that I am not +unaccustomed to--an influential position.’ + +‘I am happy,’ returned Mrs General, ‘to be so corroborated. I would +therefore the more confidently recommend that Mr Dorrit should speak to +Amy himself, and make his observations and wishes known to her. Being +his favourite, besides, and no doubt attached to him, she is all the +more likely to yield to his influence.’ + +‘I had anticipated your suggestion, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, +‘but--ha--was not sure that I might--hum--not encroach on--’ + +‘On my province, Mr Dorrit?’ said Mrs General, graciously. ‘Do not +mention it.’ + +‘Then, with your leave, madam,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ringing his little +bell to summon his valet, ‘I will send for her at once.’ + +‘Does Mr Dorrit wish me to remain?’ + +‘Perhaps, if you have no other engagement, you would not object for a +minute or two--’ + +‘Not at all.’ + +So, Tinkler the valet was instructed to find Miss Amy’s maid, and to +request that subordinate to inform Miss Amy that Mr Dorrit wished to +see her in his own room. In delivering this charge to Tinkler, Mr Dorrit +looked severely at him, and also kept a jealous eye upon him until he +went out at the door, mistrusting that he might have something in his +mind prejudicial to the family dignity; that he might have even got wind +of some Collegiate joke before he came into the service, and might be +derisively reviving its remembrance at the present moment. If Tinkler +had happened to smile, however faintly and innocently, nothing would +have persuaded Mr Dorrit, to the hour of his death, but that this was +the case. As Tinkler happened, however, very fortunately for himself, to +be of a serious and composed countenance, he escaped the secret danger +that threatened him. And as on his return--when Mr Dorrit eyed him +again--he announced Miss Amy as if she had come to a funeral, he left a +vague impression on Mr Dorrit’s mind that he was a well-conducted young +fellow, who had been brought up in the study of his Catechism by a +widowed mother. + +‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have just now been the subject of some +conversation between myself and Mrs General. We agree that you scarcely +seem at home here. Ha--how is this?’ + +A pause. + +‘I think, father, I require a little time.’ + +‘Papa is a preferable mode of address,’ observed Mrs General. ‘Father is +rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a pretty form to +the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very +good words for the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it +serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to +yourself in company--on entering a room, for instance--Papa, potatoes, +poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.’ + +‘Pray, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘attend to the--hum--precepts of Mrs +General.’ + +Poor Little Dorrit, with a rather forlorn glance at that eminent +varnisher, promised to try. + +‘You say, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘that you think you require time. +Time for what?’ + +Another pause. + +‘To become accustomed to the novelty of my life, was all I meant,’ said +Little Dorrit, with her loving eyes upon her father; whom she had very +nearly addressed as poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her desire +to submit herself to Mrs General and please him. + +Mr Dorrit frowned, and looked anything but pleased. ‘Amy,’ he returned, +‘it appears to me, I must say, that you have had abundance of time for +that. Ha--you surprise me. You disappoint me. Fanny has conquered any +such little difficulties, and--hum--why not you?’ + +‘I hope I shall do better soon,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘I hope so,’ returned her father. ‘I--ha--I most devoutly hope so, Amy. +I sent for you, in order that I might say--hum--impressively say, in +the presence of Mrs General, to whom we are all so much indebted +for obligingly being present among us, on--ha--on this or any other +occasion,’ Mrs General shut her eyes, ‘that I--ha hum--am not pleased +with you. You make Mrs General’s a thankless task. You--ha--embarrass +me very much. You have always (as I have informed Mrs General) been my +favourite child; I have always made you a--hum--a friend and companion; +in return, I beg--I--ha--I _do_ beg, that you accommodate yourself +better to--hum--circumstances, and dutifully do what becomes your--your +station.’ + +Mr Dorrit was even a little more fragmentary than usual, being excited +on the subject and anxious to make himself particularly emphatic. + +‘I do beg,’ he repeated, ‘that this may be attended to, and that you +will seriously take pains and try to conduct yourself in a manner both +becoming your position as--ha--Miss Amy Dorrit, and satisfactory to +myself and Mrs General.’ + +That lady shut her eyes again, on being again referred to; then, slowly +opening them and rising, added these words: + +‘If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of +my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have +no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking, +as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at +vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them by a +very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing +disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing +in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive +of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A +truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything +that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’ Having delivered +this exalted sentiment, Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and +retired with an expression of mouth indicative of Prunes and Prism. + +Little Dorrit, whether speaking or silent, had preserved her quiet +earnestness and her loving look. It had not been clouded, except for a +passing moment, until now. But now that she was left alone with him +the fingers of her lightly folded hands were agitated, and there was +repressed emotion in her face. + +Not for herself. She might feel a little wounded, but her care was not +for herself. Her thoughts still turned, as they always had turned, to +him. A faint misgiving, which had hung about her since their accession +to fortune, that even now she could never see him as he used to be +before the prison days, had gradually begun to assume form in her mind. +She felt that, in what he had just now said to her and in his whole +bearing towards her, there was the well-known shadow of the Marshalsea +wall. It took a new shape, but it was the old sad shadow. She began +with sorrowful unwillingness to acknowledge to herself that she was +not strong enough to keep off the fear that no space in the life of man +could overcome that quarter of a century behind the prison bars. She had +no blame to bestow upon him, therefore: nothing to reproach him with, +no emotions in her faithful heart but great compassion and unbounded +tenderness. + +This is why it was, that, even as he sat before her on his sofa, in the +brilliant light of a bright Italian day, the wonderful city without and +the splendours of an old palace within, she saw him at the moment in the +long-familiar gloom of his Marshalsea lodging, and wished to take her +seat beside him, and comfort him, and be again full of confidence with +him, and of usefulness to him. If he divined what was in her thoughts, +his own were not in tune with it. After some uneasy moving in his seat, +he got up and walked about, looking very much dissatisfied. + +‘Is there anything else you wish to say to me, dear father?’ + +‘No, no. Nothing else.’ + +‘I am sorry you have not been pleased with me, dear. I hope you will not +think of me with displeasure now. I am going to try, more than ever, to +adapt myself as you wish to what surrounds me--for indeed I have tried +all along, though I have failed, I know.’ + +‘Amy,’ he returned, turning short upon her. ‘You--ha--habitually hurt +me.’ + +‘Hurt you, father! I!’ + +‘There is a--hum--a topic,’ said Mr Dorrit, looking all about the +ceiling of the room, and never at the attentive, uncomplainingly shocked +face, ‘a painful topic, a series of events which I wish--ha--altogether +to obliterate. This is understood by your sister, who has already +remonstrated with you in my presence; it is understood by your brother; +it is understood by--ha hum--by every one of delicacy and sensitiveness +except yourself--ha--I am sorry to say, except yourself. You, +Amy--hum--you alone and only you--constantly revive the topic, though +not in words.’ + +She laid her hand on his arm. She did nothing more. She gently touched +him. The trembling hand may have said, with some expression, ‘Think of +me, think how I have worked, think of my many cares!’ But she said not a +syllable herself. + +There was a reproach in the touch so addressed to him that she had +not foreseen, or she would have withheld her hand. He began to justify +himself in a heated, stumbling, angry manner, which made nothing of it. + +‘I was there all those years. I was--ha--universally acknowledged as +the head of the place. I--hum--I caused you to be respected there, Amy. +I--ha hum--I gave my family a position there. I deserve a return. I +claim a return. I say, sweep it off the face of the earth and begin +afresh. Is that much? I ask, is _that_ much?’ + +He did not once look at her, as he rambled on in this way; but +gesticulated at, and appealed to, the empty air. + +‘I have suffered. Probably I know how much I have suffered better than +any one--ha--I say than any one! If _I_ can put that aside, if _I_ can +eradicate the marks of what I have endured, and can emerge before the +world--a--ha--gentleman unspoiled, unspotted--is it a great deal to +expect--I say again, is it a great deal to expect--that my children +should--hum--do the same and sweep that accursed experience off the face +of the earth?’ + +In spite of his flustered state, he made all these exclamations in a +carefully suppressed voice, lest the valet should overhear anything. + +‘Accordingly, they do it. Your sister does it. Your brother does it. You +alone, my favourite child, whom I made the friend and companion of my +life when you were a mere--hum--Baby, do not do it. You alone say you +can’t do it. I provide you with valuable assistance to do it. I attach +an accomplished and highly bred lady--ha--Mrs General, to you, for the +purpose of doing it. Is it surprising that I should be displeased? Is it +necessary that I should defend myself for expressing my displeasure? +No!’ + +Notwithstanding which, he continued to defend himself, without any +abatement of his flushed mood. + +‘I am careful to appeal to that lady for confirmation, before I express +any displeasure at all. I--hum--I necessarily make that appeal within +limited bounds, or I--ha--should render legible, by that lady, what I +desire to be blotted out. Am I selfish? Do I complain for my own sake? +No. No. Principally for--ha hum--your sake, Amy.’ + +This last consideration plainly appeared, from his manner of pursuing +it, to have just that instant come into his head. + +‘I said I was hurt. So I am. So I--ha--am determined to be, whatever +is advanced to the contrary. I am hurt that my daughter, seated in +the--hum--lap of fortune, should mope and retire and proclaim herself +unequal to her destiny. I am hurt that she should--ha--systematically +reproduce what the rest of us blot out; and seem--hum--I had almost said +positively anxious--to announce to wealthy and distinguished society +that she was born and bred in--ha hum--a place that I myself decline to +name. But there is no inconsistency--ha--not the least, in my feeling +hurt, and yet complaining principally for your sake, Amy. I do; I say +again, I do. It is for your sake that I wish you, under the auspices of +Mrs General, to form a--hum--a surface. It is for your sake that I wish +you to have a--ha--truly refined mind, and (in the striking words of +Mrs General) to be ignorant of everything that is not perfectly proper, +placid, and pleasant.’ + +He had been running down by jerks, during his last speech, like a +sort of ill-adjusted alarum. The touch was still upon his arm. He fell +silent; and after looking about the ceiling again for a little while, +looked down at her. Her head drooped, and he could not see her face; but +her touch was tender and quiet, and in the expression of her dejected +figure there was no blame--nothing but love. He began to whimper, just +as he had done that night in the prison when she afterwards sat at +his bedside till morning; exclaimed that he was a poor ruin and a poor +wretch in the midst of his wealth; and clasped her in his arms. ‘Hush, +hush, my own dear! Kiss me!’ was all she said to him. His tears +were soon dried, much sooner than on the former occasion; and he was +presently afterwards very high with his valet, as a way of righting +himself for having shed any. + +With one remarkable exception, to be recorded in its place, this was +the only time, in his life of freedom and fortune, when he spoke to his +daughter Amy of the old days. + +But, now, the breakfast hour arrived; and with it Miss Fanny from her +apartment, and Mr Edward from his apartment. Both these young persons of +distinction were something the worse for late hours. As to Miss Fanny, +she had become the victim of an insatiate mania for what she called +‘going into society;’ and would have gone into it head-foremost fifty +times between sunset and sunrise, if so many opportunities had been at +her disposal. As to Mr Edward, he, too, had a large acquaintance, and +was generally engaged (for the most part, in diceing circles, or others +of a kindred nature), during the greater part of every night. For this +gentleman, when his fortunes changed, had stood at the great advantage +of being already prepared for the highest associates, and having little +to learn: so much was he indebted to the happy accidents which had made +him acquainted with horse-dealing and billiard-marking. + +At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old +gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have +practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other +inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration +to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated, +but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections +from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the +sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered +that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no +longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new +habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted +paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who +had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might +not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was +bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned +Venetians. It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them; +whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he +confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the +strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great +exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the +first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these +attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often +accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old +man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these +excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture +to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances, +silently presenting her to the noble Venetians. + +It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having +seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they +had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, ‘I forget the name,’ said +he. ‘I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?’ + +‘_I_ remember ‘em well enough,’ said the latter. + +‘I should think so,’ observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and +a glance at her sister. ‘But they would not have been recalled to our +remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn’t tumbled over the subject.’ + +‘My dear, what a curious phrase,’ said Mrs General. ‘Would not +inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?’ + +‘Thank you very much, Mrs General,’ returned the young lady, ‘no, I +think not. On the whole I prefer my own expression.’ + +This was always Miss Fanny’s way of receiving a suggestion from Mrs +General. But she always stored it up in her mind, and adopted it at +another time. + +‘I should have mentioned our having met Mr and Mrs Gowan, Fanny,’ said +Little Dorrit, ‘even if Uncle had not. I have scarcely seen you since, +you know. I meant to have spoken of it at breakfast; because I should +like to pay a visit to Mrs Gowan, and to become better acquainted with +her, if Papa and Mrs General do not object.’ + +‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘I am sure I am glad to find you at last +expressing a wish to become better acquainted with anybody in Venice. +Though whether Mr and Mrs Gowan are desirable acquaintances, remains to +be determined.’ + +‘Mrs Gowan I spoke of, dear.’ + +‘No doubt,’ said Fanny. ‘But you can’t separate her from her husband, I +believe, without an Act of Parliament.’ + +‘Do you think, Papa,’ inquired Little Dorrit, with diffidence and +hesitation, ‘there is any objection to my making this visit?’ + +‘Really,’ he replied, ‘I--ha--what is Mrs General’s view?’ + +Mrs General’s view was, that not having the honour of any acquaintance +with the lady and gentleman referred to, she was not in a position +to varnish the present article. She could only remark, as a general +principle observed in the varnishing trade, that much depended on the +quarter from which the lady under consideration was accredited to a +family so conspicuously niched in the social temple as the family of +Dorrit. + +At this remark the face of Mr Dorrit gloomed considerably. He was about +(connecting the accrediting with an obtrusive person of the name +of Clennam, whom he imperfectly remembered in some former state of +existence) to black-ball the name of Gowan finally, when Edward Dorrit, +Esquire, came into the conversation, with his glass in his eye, and the +preliminary remark of ‘I say--you there! Go out, will you!’--which was +addressed to a couple of men who were handing the dishes round, as a +courteous intimation that their services could be temporarily dispensed +with. + +Those menials having obeyed the mandate, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, +proceeded. + +‘Perhaps it’s a matter of policy to let you all know that these +Gowans--in whose favour, or at least the gentleman’s, I can’t be +supposed to be much prepossessed myself--are known to people of +importance, if that makes any difference.’ + +‘That, I would say,’ observed the fair varnisher, ‘Makes the greatest +difference. The connection in question, being really people of +importance and consideration--’ + +‘As to that,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘I’ll give you the means of +judging for yourself. You are acquainted, perhaps, with the famous name +of Merdle?’ + +‘The great Merdle!’ exclaimed Mrs General. + +‘_The_ Merdle,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire. ‘They are known to him. +Mrs Gowan--I mean the dowager, my polite friend’s mother--is intimate +with Mrs Merdle, and I know these two to be on their visiting list.’ + +‘If so, a more undeniable guarantee could not be given,’ said Mrs +General to Mr Dorrit, raising her gloves and bowing her head, as if she +were doing homage to some visible graven image. + +‘I beg to ask my son, from motives of--ah--curiosity,’ Mr Dorrit +observed, with a decided change in his manner, ‘how he becomes possessed +of this--hum--timely information?’ + +‘It’s not a long story, sir,’ returned Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘and you +shall have it out of hand. To begin with, Mrs Merdle is the lady you had +the parley with at what’s-his-name place.’ + +‘Martigny,’ interposed Miss Fanny with an air of infinite languor. + +‘Martigny,’ assented her brother, with a slight nod and a slight wink; +in acknowledgment of which, Miss Fanny looked surprised, and laughed and +reddened. + +‘How can that be, Edward?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘You informed me that the +name of the gentleman with whom you conferred was--ha--Sparkler. Indeed, +you showed me his card. Hum. Sparkler.’ + +‘No doubt of it, father; but it doesn’t follow that his mother’s name +must be the same. Mrs Merdle was married before, and he is her son. She +is in Rome now; where probably we shall know more of her, as you decide +to winter there. Sparkler is just come here. I passed last evening in +company with Sparkler. Sparkler is a very good fellow on the +whole, though rather a bore on one subject, in consequence of being +tremendously smitten with a certain young lady.’ Here Edward Dorrit, +Esquire, eyed Miss Fanny through his glass across the table. ‘We +happened last night to compare notes about our travels, and I had the +information I have given you from Sparkler himself.’ Here he ceased; +continuing to eye Miss Fanny through his glass, with a face much +twisted, and not ornamentally so, in part by the action of keeping his +glass in his eye, and in part by the great subtlety of his smile. + +‘Under these circumstances,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I believe I express the +sentiments of--ha--Mrs General, no less than my own, when I say +that there is no objection, but--ha hum--quite the contrary--to your +gratifying your desire, Amy. I trust I may--ha--hail--this desire,’ said +Mr Dorrit, in an encouraging and forgiving manner, ‘as an auspicious +omen. It is quite right to know these people. It is a very proper +thing. Mr Merdle’s is a name of--ha--world-wide repute. Mr Merdle’s +undertakings are immense. They bring him in such vast sums of money that +they are regarded as--hum--national benefits. Mr Merdle is the man of +this time. The name of Merdle is the name of the age. Pray do everything +on my behalf that is civil to Mr and Mrs Gowan, for we will--ha--we will +certainly notice them.’ + +This magnificent accordance of Mr Dorrit’s recognition settled the +matter. It was not observed that Uncle had pushed away his plate, and +forgotten his breakfast; but he was not much observed at any time, +except by Little Dorrit. The servants were recalled, and the meal +proceeded to its conclusion. Mrs General rose and left the table. +Little Dorrit rose and left the table. When Edward and Fanny remained +whispering together across it, and when Mr Dorrit remained eating figs +and reading a French newspaper, Uncle suddenly fixed the attention of +all three by rising out of his chair, striking his hand upon the table, +and saying, ‘Brother! I protest against it!’ + +If he had made a proclamation in an unknown tongue, and given up the +ghost immediately afterwards, he could not have astounded his audience +more. The paper fell from Mr Dorrit’s hand, and he sat petrified, with a +fig half way to his mouth. + +‘Brother!’ said the old man, conveying a surprising energy into his +trembling voice, ‘I protest against it! I love you; you know I love you +dearly. In these many years I have never been untrue to you in a single +thought. Weak as I am, I would at any time have struck any man who spoke +ill of you. But, brother, brother, brother, I protest against it!’ + +It was extraordinary to see of what a burst of earnestness such a +decrepit man was capable. His eyes became bright, his grey hair rose on +his head, markings of purpose on his brow and face which had faded from +them for five-and-twenty years, started out again, and there was an +energy in his hand that made its action nervous once more. + +‘My dear Frederick!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit faintly. ‘What is wrong? What +is the matter?’ + +‘How dare you,’ said the old man, turning round on Fanny, ‘how dare you +do it? Have you no memory? Have you no heart?’ + +‘Uncle?’ cried Fanny, affrighted and bursting into tears, ‘why do you +attack me in this cruel manner? What have I done?’ + +‘Done?’ returned the old man, pointing to her sister’s place, ‘where’s +your affectionate invaluable friend? Where’s your devoted guardian? +Where’s your more than mother? How dare you set up superiorities against +all these characters combined in your sister? For shame, you false girl, +for shame!’ + +‘I love Amy,’ cried Miss Fanny, sobbing and weeping, ‘as well as I love +my life--better than I love my life. I don’t deserve to be so treated. I +am as grateful to Amy, and as fond of Amy, as it’s possible for any +human being to be. I wish I was dead. I never was so wickedly wronged. +And only because I am anxious for the family credit.’ + +‘To the winds with the family credit!’ cried the old man, with great +scorn and indignation. ‘Brother, I protest against pride. I protest +against ingratitude. I protest against any one of us here who have known +what we have known, and have seen what we have seen, setting up any +pretension that puts Amy at a moment’s disadvantage, or to the cost of +a moment’s pain. We may know that it’s a base pretension by its having +that effect. It ought to bring a judgment on us. Brother, I protest +against it in the sight of God!’ + +As his hand went up above his head and came down on the table, it might +have been a blacksmith’s. After a few moments’ silence, it had relaxed +into its usual weak condition. He went round to his brother with his +ordinary shuffling step, put the hand on his shoulder, and said, in a +softened voice, ‘William, my dear, I felt obliged to say it; forgive me, +for I felt obliged to say it!’ and then went, in his bowed way, out of +the palace hall, just as he might have gone out of the Marshalsea room. + +All this time Fanny had been sobbing and crying, and still continued to +do so. Edward, beyond opening his mouth in amazement, had not opened his +lips, and had done nothing but stare. Mr Dorrit also had been utterly +discomfited, and quite unable to assert himself in any way. Fanny was +now the first to speak. + +‘I never, never, never was so used!’ she sobbed. ‘There never was +anything so harsh and unjustifiable, so disgracefully violent and cruel! +Dear, kind, quiet little Amy, too, what would she feel if she could know +that she had been innocently the means of exposing me to such treatment! +But I’ll never tell her! No, good darling, I’ll never tell her!’ + +This helped Mr Dorrit to break his silence. + +‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I--ha--approve of your resolution. It will be--ha +hum--much better not to speak of this to Amy. It might--hum--it +might distress her. Ha. No doubt it would distress her greatly. It +is considerate and right to avoid doing so. We will--ha--keep this to +ourselves.’ + +‘But the cruelty of Uncle!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘O, I never can forgive +the wanton cruelty of Uncle!’ + +‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his tone, though he remained +unusually pale, ‘I must request you not to say so. You must remember +that your uncle is--ha--not what he formerly was. You must remember +that your uncle’s state requires--hum--great forbearance from us, great +forbearance.’ + +‘I am sure,’ cried Fanny, piteously, ‘it is only charitable to suppose +that there must be something wrong in him somewhere, or he never could +have so attacked Me, of all the people in the world.’ + +‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit in a deeply fraternal tone, ‘you know, with +his innumerable good points, what a--hum--wreck your uncle is; and, I +entreat you by the fondness that I have for him, and by the fidelity +that you know I have always shown him, to--ha--to draw your own +conclusions, and to spare my brotherly feelings.’ + +This ended the scene; Edward Dorrit, Esquire, saying nothing throughout, +but looking, to the last, perplexed and doubtful. Miss Fanny awakened +much affectionate uneasiness in her sister’s mind that day by passing +the greater part of it in violent fits of embracing her, and in +alternately giving her brooches, and wishing herself dead. + + + + +CHAPTER 6. Something Right Somewhere + + +To be in the halting state of Mr Henry Gowan; to have left one of two +powers in disgust; to want the necessary qualifications for finding +promotion with another, and to be loitering moodily about on neutral +ground, cursing both; is to be in a situation unwholesome for the mind, +which time is not likely to improve. The worst class of sum worked in +the every-day world is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are +always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of +others, and never in Addition as to their own. + +The habit, too, of seeking some sort of recompense in the discontented +boast of being disappointed, is a habit fraught with degeneracy. A +certain idle carelessness and recklessness of consistency soon comes of +it. To bring deserving things down by setting undeserving things up is +one of its perverted delights; and there is no playing fast and loose +with the truth, in any game, without growing the worse for it. + +In his expressed opinions of all performances in the Art of painting +that were completely destitute of merit, Gowan was the most liberal +fellow on earth. He would declare such a man to have more power in his +little finger (provided he had none), than such another had (provided he +had much) in his whole mind and body. If the objection were taken that +the thing commended was trash, he would reply, on behalf of his art, ‘My +good fellow, what do we all turn out but trash? _I_ turn out nothing else, +and I make you a present of the confession.’ + +To make a vaunt of being poor was another of the incidents of his +splenetic state, though this may have had the design in it of showing +that he ought to be rich; just as he would publicly laud and decry the +Barnacles, lest it should be forgotten that he belonged to the family. +Howbeit, these two subjects were very often on his lips; and he managed +them so well that he might have praised himself by the month together, +and not have made himself out half so important a man as he did by his +light disparagement of his claims on anybody’s consideration. + +Out of this same airy talk of his, it always soon came to be understood, +wherever he and his wife went, that he had married against the wishes +of his exalted relations, and had had much ado to prevail on them to +countenance her. He never made the representation, on the contrary +seemed to laugh the idea to scorn; but it did happen that, with all his +pains to depreciate himself, he was always in the superior position. +From the days of their honeymoon, Minnie Gowan felt sensible of being +usually regarded as the wife of a man who had made a descent in marrying +her, but whose chivalrous love for her had cancelled that inequality. + +To Venice they had been accompanied by Monsieur Blandois of Paris, and +at Venice Monsieur Blandois of Paris was very much in the society of +Gowan. When they had first met this gallant gentleman at Geneva, +Gowan had been undecided whether to kick him or encourage him; and had +remained for about four-and-twenty hours, so troubled to settle +the point to his satisfaction, that he had thought of tossing up a +five-franc piece on the terms, ‘Tails, kick; heads, encourage,’ and +abiding by the voice of the oracle. It chanced, however, that his wife +expressed a dislike to the engaging Blandois, and that the balance +of feeling in the hotel was against him. Upon it, Gowan resolved to +encourage him. + +Why this perversity, if it were not in a generous fit?--which it was +not. Why should Gowan, very much the superior of Blandois of Paris, and +very well able to pull that prepossessing gentleman to pieces and find +out the stuff he was made of, take up with such a man? In the first +place, he opposed the first separate wish he observed in his wife, +because her father had paid his debts and it was desirable to take an +early opportunity of asserting his independence. In the second place, +he opposed the prevalent feeling, because with many capacities of +being otherwise, he was an ill-conditioned man. He found a pleasure in +declaring that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois ought +to rise to the greatest distinction in any polished country. He found a +pleasure in setting up Blandois as the type of elegance, and making +him a satire upon others who piqued themselves on personal graces. +He seriously protested that the bow of Blandois was perfect, that the +address of Blandois was irresistible, and that the picturesque ease +of Blandois would be cheaply purchased (if it were not a gift, and +unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That exaggeration in the +manner of the man which has been noticed as appertaining to him and to +every such man, whatever his original breeding, as certainly as the sun +belongs to this system, was acceptable to Gowan as a caricature, which +he found it a humorous resource to have at hand for the ridiculing of +numbers of people who necessarily did more or less of what Blandois +overdid. Thus he had taken up with him; and thus, negligently +strengthening these inclinations with habit, and idly deriving some +amusement from his talk, he had glided into a way of having him for +a companion. This, though he supposed him to live by his wits at +play-tables and the like; though he suspected him to be a coward, while +he himself was daring and courageous; though he thoroughly knew him to +be disliked by Minnie; and though he cared so little for him, after all, +that if he had given her any tangible personal cause to regard him with +aversion, he would have had no compunction whatever in flinging him out +of the highest window in Venice into the deepest water of the city. + +Little Dorrit would have been glad to make her visit to Mrs Gowan, +alone; but as Fanny, who had not yet recovered from her Uncle’s protest, +though it was four-and-twenty hours of age, pressingly offered her +company, the two sisters stepped together into one of the gondolas under +Mr Dorrit’s window, and, with the courier in attendance, were taken in +high state to Mrs Gowan’s lodging. In truth, their state was rather too +high for the lodging, which was, as Fanny complained, ‘fearfully out of +the way,’ and which took them through a complexity of narrow streets of +water, which the same lady disparaged as ‘mere ditches.’ + +The house, on a little desert island, looked as if it had broken +away from somewhere else, and had floated by chance into its present +anchorage in company with a vine almost as much in want of training as +the poor wretches who were lying under its leaves. The features of the +surrounding picture were, a church with hoarding and scaffolding about +it, which had been under suppositious repair so long that the means of +repair looked a hundred years old, and had themselves fallen into decay; +a quantity of washed linen, spread to dry in the sun; a number of houses +at odds with one another and grotesquely out of the perpendicular, like +rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into fantastic shapes and full of mites; +and a feverish bewilderment of windows, with their lattice-blinds all +hanging askew, and something draggled and dirty dangling out of most of +them. + +On the first-floor of the house was a Bank--a surprising experience for +any gentleman of commercial pursuits bringing laws for all mankind from +a British city--where two spare clerks, like dried dragoons, in green +velvet caps adorned with golden tassels, stood, bearded, behind a small +counter in a small room, containing no other visible objects than an +empty iron-safe with the door open, a jug of water, and a papering of +garland of roses; but who, on lawful requisition, by merely dipping +their hands out of sight, could produce exhaustless mounds of five-franc +pieces. Below the Bank was a suite of three or four rooms with barred +windows, which had the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the +Bank was Mrs Gowan’s residence. + +Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary maps were +bursting out of them to impart geographical knowledge; notwithstanding +that its weird furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the +prevailing Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb tide on a weedy +shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised. +The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin--a +temporary servant--who ushered them into the room where Mrs Gowan sat, +with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see +the mistress. + +Mrs Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a +covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively +courteous to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a +veteran. + +‘Papa was extremely sorry,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘to be engaged to-day (he +is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!); +and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr Gowan. That I may +be sure to acquit myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at +least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on +the table at once.’ + +Which she did with veteran ease. + +‘We have been,’ said Fanny, ‘charmed to understand that you know the +Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.’ + +‘They are friends,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of Mr Gowan’s family. I have not +yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs Merdle, but I +suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.’ + +‘Indeed?’ returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably quenching her +own superiority. ‘I think you’ll like her.’ + +‘You know her very well?’ + +‘Why, you see,’ said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders, +‘in London one knows every one. We met her on our way here, and, to say +the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the +rooms that our people had ordered for us. However, of course, that soon +blew over, and we were all good friends again.’ + +Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of +conversing with Mrs Gowan, there was a silent understanding between +them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs Gowan with keen and unabated +interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was +near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit. +She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other +case--but one. + +‘You have been quite well,’ she now said, ‘since that night?’ + +‘Quite, my dear. And you?’ + +‘Oh! I am always well,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly. ‘I--yes, thank you.’ + +There was no reason for her faltering and breaking off, other than that +Mrs Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had +met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive in the large, soft eyes, had +checked Little Dorrit in an instant. + +‘You don’t know that you are a favourite of my husband’s, and that I am +almost bound to be jealous of you?’ said Mrs Gowan. + +Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head. + +‘He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are +quieter and quicker of resource than any one he ever saw.’ + +‘He speaks far too well of me,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘I doubt that; but I don’t at all doubt that I must tell him you +are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you--and Miss +Dorrit--go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder and +discomfort of a painter’s studio?’ + +The inquiries were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that +she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted. Mrs Gowan went to +a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. ‘Do Henry the favour to come +in,’ said she, ‘I knew he would be pleased!’ + +The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was +Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive slouched hat, standing +on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint +Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She +recoiled from this figure, as it smiled at her. + +‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door. +‘It’s only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model to-day. I am making +a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor +painters have none to spare.’ + +Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted the ladies +without coming out of his corner. + +‘A thousand pardons!’ said he. ‘But the Professore here is so inexorable +with me, that I am afraid to stir.’ + +‘Don’t stir, then,’ said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the +easel. ‘Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they +may know what it’s meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting +for his prey, a distinguished noble waiting to save his country, the +common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger +waiting to do somebody a good turn--whatever you think he looks most +like!’ + +‘Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage to +elegance and beauty,’ remarked Blandois. + +‘Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,’ returned Gowan, touching the painted +face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, ‘a +murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it +outside the cloak. Keep it still.’ + +Blandois’ hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally +shake it. + +‘He was formerly in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a +victim, you observe,’ said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand +with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, ‘and these are the tokens of +it. Outside the cloak, man!--Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking +of?’ + +Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more; +now he raised it to twist his moustache, which had a damp appearance; +and now he stood in the required position, with a little new swagger. + +His face was so directed in reference to the spot where Little Dorrit +stood by the easel, that throughout he looked at her. Once attracted by +his peculiar eyes, she could not remove her own, and they had looked +at each other all the time. She trembled now; Gowan, feeling it, and +supposing her to be alarmed by the large dog beside him, whose head she +caressed in her hand, and who had just uttered a low growl, glanced at +her to say, ‘He won’t hurt you, Miss Dorrit.’ + +‘I am not afraid of him,’ she returned in the same breath; ‘but will you +look at him?’ + +In a moment Gowan had thrown down his brush, and seized the dog with +both hands by the collar. + +‘Blandois! How can you be such a fool as to provoke him! By Heaven, and +the other place too, he’ll tear you to bits! Lie down! Lion! Do you hear +my voice, you rebel!’ + +The great dog, regardless of being half-choked by his collar, was +obdurately pulling with his dead weight against his master, resolved to +get across the room. He had been crouching for a spring at the moment +when his master caught him. + +‘Lion! Lion!’ He was up on his hind legs, and it was a wrestle between +master and dog. ‘Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois! +What devil have you conjured into the dog?’ + +‘I have done nothing to him.’ + +‘Get out of his sight or I can’t hold the wild beast! Get out of the +room! By my soul, he’ll kill you!’ + +The dog, with a ferocious bark, made one other struggle as Blandois +vanished; then, in the moment of the dog’s submission, the master, +little less angry than the dog, felled him with a blow on the head, and +standing over him, struck him many times severely with the heel of his +boot, so that his mouth was presently bloody. + +‘Now get you into that corner and lie down,’ said Gowan, ‘or I’ll take +you out and shoot you.’ + +Lion did as he was ordered, and lay down licking his mouth and chest. +Lion’s master stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, recovering +his usual coolness of manner, turned to speak to his frightened wife +and her visitors. Probably the whole occurrence had not occupied two +minutes. + +‘Come, come, Minnie! You know he is always good-humoured and tractable. +Blandois must have irritated him,--made faces at him. The dog has his +likings and dislikings, and Blandois is no great favourite of his; but +I am sure you will give him a character, Minnie, for never having been +like this before.’ + +Minnie was too much disturbed to say anything connected in reply; Little +Dorrit was already occupied in soothing her; Fanny, who had cried out +twice or thrice, held Gowan’s arm for protection; Lion, deeply ashamed +of having caused them this alarm, came trailing himself along the ground +to the feet of his mistress. + +‘You furious brute,’ said Gowan, striking him with his foot again. ‘You +shall do penance for this.’ And he struck him again, and yet again. + +‘O, pray don’t punish him any more,’ cried Little Dorrit. ‘Don’t hurt +him. See how gentle he is!’ At her entreaty, Gowan spared him; and he +deserved her intercession, for truly he was as submissive, and as sorry, +and as wretched as a dog could be. + +It was not easy to recover this shock and make the visit unrestrained, +even though Fanny had not been, under the best of circumstances, the +least trifle in the way. In such further communication as passed among +them before the sisters took their departure, Little Dorrit fancied it +was revealed to her that Mr Gowan treated his wife, even in his very +fondness, too much like a beautiful child. He seemed so unsuspicious of +the depths of feeling which she knew must lie below that surface, that +she doubted if there could be any such depths in himself. She wondered +whether his want of earnestness might be the natural result of his want +of such qualities, and whether it was with people as with ships, that, +in too shallow and rocky waters, their anchors had no hold, and they +drifted anywhere. + +He attended them down the staircase, jocosely apologising for the +poor quarters to which such poor fellows as himself were limited, and +remarking that when the high and mighty Barnacles, his relatives, who +would be dreadfully ashamed of them, presented him with better, he would +live in better to oblige them. At the water’s edge they were saluted by +Blandois, who looked white enough after his late adventure, but who made +very light of it notwithstanding,--laughing at the mention of Lion. + +Leaving the two together under the scrap of vine upon the causeway, +Gowan idly scattering the leaves from it into the water, and Blandois +lighting a cigarette, the sisters were paddled away in state as they had +come. They had not glided on for many minutes, when Little Dorrit became +aware that Fanny was more showy in manner than the occasion appeared to +require, and, looking about for the cause through the window and through +the open door, saw another gondola evidently in waiting on them. + +As this gondola attended their progress in various artful ways; +sometimes shooting on a-head, and stopping to let them pass; sometimes, +when the way was broad enough, skimming along side by side with them; +and sometimes following close astern; and as Fanny gradually made no +disguise that she was playing off graces upon somebody within it, of +whom she at the same time feigned to be unconscious; Little Dorrit at +length asked who it was? + +To which Fanny made the short answer, ‘That gaby.’ + +‘Who?’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘My dear child,’ returned Fanny (in a tone suggesting that before her +Uncle’s protest she might have said, You little fool, instead), ‘how +slow you are! Young Sparkler.’ + +She lowered the window on her side, and, leaning back and resting her +elbow on it negligently, fanned herself with a rich Spanish fan of black +and gold. The attendant gondola, having skimmed forward again, with some +swift trace of an eye in the window, Fanny laughed coquettishly and +said, ‘Did you ever see such a fool, my love?’ + +‘Do you think he means to follow you all the way?’ asked Little Dorrit. + +‘My precious child,’ returned Fanny, ‘I can’t possibly answer for what +an idiot in a state of desperation may do, but I should think it highly +probable. It’s not such an enormous distance. All Venice would scarcely +be that, I imagine, if he’s dying for a glimpse of me.’ + +‘And is he?’ asked Little Dorrit in perfect simplicity. + +‘Well, my love, that really is an awkward question for me to answer,’ +said her sister. ‘I believe he is. You had better ask Edward. He tells +Edward he is, I believe. I understand he makes a perfect spectacle of +himself at the Casino, and that sort of places, by going on about me. +But you had better ask Edward if you want to know.’ + +‘I wonder he doesn’t call,’ said Little Dorrit after thinking a moment. + +‘My dear Amy, your wonder will soon cease, if I am rightly informed. +I should not be at all surprised if he called to-day. The creature has +only been waiting to get his courage up, I suspect.’ + +‘Will you see him?’ + +‘Indeed, my darling,’ said Fanny, ‘that’s just as it may happen. Here he +is again. Look at him. O, you simpleton!’ + +Mr Sparkler had, undeniably, a weak appearance; with his eye in the +window like a knot in the glass, and no reason on earth for stopping his +bark suddenly, except the real reason. + +‘When you asked me if I will see him, my dear,’ said Fanny, almost as +well composed in the graceful indifference of her attitude as Mrs Merdle +herself, ‘what do you mean?’ + +‘I mean,’ said Little Dorrit--‘I think I rather mean what do you mean, +dear Fanny?’ + +Fanny laughed again, in a manner at once condescending, arch, and +affable; and said, putting her arm round her sister in a playfully +affectionate way: + +‘Now tell me, my little pet. When we saw that woman at Martigny, how +did you think she carried it off? Did you see what she decided on in a +moment?’ + +‘No, Fanny.’ + +‘Then I’ll tell you, Amy. She settled with herself, now I’ll never +refer to that meeting under such different circumstances, and I’ll never +pretend to have any idea that these are the same girls. That’s _her_ way +out of a difficulty. What did I tell you when we came away from Harley +Street that time? She is as insolent and false as any woman in the +world. But in the first capacity, my love, she may find people who can +match her.’ + +A significant turn of the Spanish fan towards Fanny’s bosom, indicated +with great expression where one of these people was to be found. + +‘Not only that,’ pursued Fanny, ‘but she gives the same charge to +Young Sparkler; and doesn’t let him come after me until she has got it +thoroughly into his most ridiculous of all ridiculous noddles (for one +really can’t call it a head), that he is to pretend to have been first +struck with me in that Inn Yard.’ + +‘Why?’ asked Little Dorrit. + +‘Why? Good gracious, my love!’ (again very much in the tone of You +stupid little creature) ‘how can you ask? Don’t you see that I may have +become a rather desirable match for a noddle? And don’t you see that she +puts the deception upon us, and makes a pretence, while she shifts it +from her own shoulders (very good shoulders they are too, I must say),’ +observed Miss Fanny, glancing complacently at herself, ‘of considering +our feelings?’ + +‘But we can always go back to the plain truth.’ + +‘Yes, but if you please we won’t,’ retorted Fanny. ‘No; I am not going +to have that done, Amy. The pretext is none of mine; it’s hers, and she +shall have enough of it.’ + +In the triumphant exaltation of her feelings, Miss Fanny, using her +Spanish fan with one hand, squeezed her sister’s waist with the other, +as if she were crushing Mrs Merdle. + +‘No,’ repeated Fanny. ‘She shall find me go her way. She took it, and +I’ll follow it. And, with the blessing of fate and fortune, I’ll go on +improving that woman’s acquaintance until I have given her maid, +before her eyes, things from my dressmaker’s ten times as handsome and +expensive as she once gave me from hers!’ + +Little Dorrit was silent; sensible that she was not to be heard on +any question affecting the family dignity, and unwilling to lose to no +purpose her sister’s newly and unexpectedly restored favour. She could +not concur, but she was silent. Fanny well knew what she was thinking +of; so well, that she soon asked her. + +Her reply was, ‘Do you mean to encourage Mr Sparkler, Fanny?’ + +‘Encourage him, my dear?’ said her sister, smiling contemptuously, ‘that +depends upon what you call encourage. No, I don’t mean to encourage him. +But I’ll make a slave of him.’ + +Little Dorrit glanced seriously and doubtfully in her face, but Fanny +was not to be so brought to a check. She furled her fan of black and +gold, and used it to tap her sister’s nose; with the air of a proud +beauty and a great spirit, who toyed with and playfully instructed a +homely companion. + +‘I shall make him fetch and carry, my dear, and I shall make him subject +to me. And if I don’t make his mother subject to me, too, it shall not +be my fault.’ + +‘Do you think--dear Fanny, don’t be offended, we are so comfortable +together now--that you can quite see the end of that course?’ + +‘I can’t say I have so much as looked for it yet, my dear,’ answered +Fanny, with supreme indifference; ‘all in good time. Such are my +intentions. And really they have taken me so long to develop, that here +we are at home. And Young Sparkler at the door, inquiring who is within. +By the merest accident, of course!’ + +In effect, the swain was standing up in his gondola, card-case in +hand, affecting to put the question to a servant. This conjunction +of circumstances led to his immediately afterwards presenting himself +before the young ladies in a posture, which in ancient times would not +have been considered one of favourable augury for his suit; since the +gondoliers of the young ladies, having been put to some inconvenience +by the chase, so neatly brought their own boat in the gentlest collision +with the bark of Mr Sparkler, as to tip that gentleman over like a +larger species of ninepin, and cause him to exhibit the soles of his +shoes to the object of his dearest wishes: while the nobler portions of +his anatomy struggled at the bottom of his boat in the arms of one of +his men. + +However, as Miss Fanny called out with much concern, Was the gentleman +hurt, Mr Sparkler rose more restored than might have been expected, and +stammered for himself with blushes, ‘Not at all so.’ Miss Fanny had no +recollection of having ever seen him before, and was passing on, with a +distant inclination of her head, when he announced himself by name. Even +then she was in a difficulty from being unable to call it to mind, until +he explained that he had had the honour of seeing her at Martigny. Then +she remembered him, and hoped his lady-mother was well. + +‘Thank you,’ stammered Mr Sparkler, ‘she’s uncommonly well--at least, +poorly.’ + +‘In Venice?’ said Miss Fanny. + +‘In Rome,’ Mr Sparkler answered. ‘I am here by myself, myself. I came to +call upon Mr Edward Dorrit myself. Indeed, upon Mr Dorrit likewise. In +fact, upon the family.’ + +Turning graciously to the attendants, Miss Fanny inquired whether her +papa or brother was within? The reply being that they were both within, +Mr Sparkler humbly offered his arm. Miss Fanny accepting it, was squired +up the great staircase by Mr Sparkler, who, if he still believed (which +there is not any reason to doubt) that she had no nonsense about her, +rather deceived himself. + +Arrived in a mouldering reception-room, where the faded hangings, of a +sad sea-green, had worn and withered until they looked as if they +might have claimed kindred with the waifs of seaweed drifting under +the windows, or clinging to the walls and weeping for their imprisoned +relations, Miss Fanny despatched emissaries for her father and brother. +Pending whose appearance, she showed to great advantage on a sofa, +completing Mr Sparkler’s conquest with some remarks upon Dante--known +to that gentleman as an eccentric man in the nature of an Old File, +who used to put leaves round his head, and sit upon a stool for some +unaccountable purpose, outside the cathedral at Florence. + +Mr Dorrit welcomed the visitor with the highest urbanity, and most +courtly manners. He inquired particularly after Mrs Merdle. He inquired +particularly after Mr Merdle. Mr Sparkler said, or rather twitched out +of himself in small pieces by the shirt-collar, that Mrs Merdle having +completely used up her place in the country, and also her house at +Brighton, and being, of course, unable, don’t you see, to remain in +London when there wasn’t a soul there, and not feeling herself this year +quite up to visiting about at people’s places, had resolved to have +a touch at Rome, where a woman like herself, with a proverbially fine +appearance, and with no nonsense about her, couldn’t fail to be a great +acquisition. As to Mr Merdle, he was so much wanted by the men in the +City and the rest of those places, and was such a doosed extraordinary +phenomenon in Buying and Banking and that, that Mr Sparkler doubted if +the monetary system of the country would be able to spare him; though +that his work was occasionally one too many for him, and that he would +be all the better for a temporary shy at an entirely new scene and +climate, Mr Sparkler did not conceal. As to himself, Mr Sparkler +conveyed to the Dorrit family that he was going, on rather particular +business, wherever they were going. + +This immense conversational achievement required time, but was effected. +Being effected, Mr Dorrit expressed his hope that Mr Sparkler would +shortly dine with them. Mr Sparkler received the idea so kindly that Mr +Dorrit asked what he was going to do that day, for instance? As he was +going to do nothing that day (his usual occupation, and one for which he +was particularly qualified), he was secured without postponement; being +further bound over to accompany the ladies to the Opera in the evening. + +At dinner-time Mr Sparkler rose out of the sea, like Venus’s son taking +after his mother, and made a splendid appearance ascending the great +staircase. If Fanny had been charming in the morning, she was now thrice +charming, very becomingly dressed in her most suitable colours, and with +an air of negligence upon her that doubled Mr Sparkler’s fetters, and +riveted them. + +‘I hear you are acquainted, Mr Sparkler,’ said his host at dinner, +‘with--ha--Mr Gowan. Mr Henry Gowan?’ + +‘Perfectly, sir,’ returned Mr Sparkler. ‘His mother and my mother are +cronies in fact.’ + +‘If I had thought of it, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a patronage as +magnificent as that of Lord Decimus himself, ‘you should have despatched +a note to them, asking them to dine to-day. Some of our people could +have--ha--fetched them, and taken them home. We could have spared +a--hum--gondola for that purpose. I am sorry to have forgotten this. +Pray remind me of them to-morrow.’ + +Little Dorrit was not without doubts how Mr Henry Gowan might take their +patronage; but she promised not to fail in the reminder. + +‘Pray, does Mr Henry Gowan paint--ha--Portraits?’ inquired Mr Dorrit. + +Mr Sparkler opined that he painted anything, if he could get the job. + +‘He has no particular walk?’ said Mr Dorrit. + +Mr Sparkler, stimulated by Love to brilliancy, replied that for a +particular walk a man ought to have a particular pair of shoes; as, for +example, shooting, shooting-shoes; cricket, cricket-shoes. Whereas, he +believed that Henry Gowan had no particular pair of shoes. + +‘No speciality?’ said Mr Dorrit. + +This being a very long word for Mr Sparkler, and his mind being +exhausted by his late effort, he replied, ‘No, thank you. I seldom take +it.’ + +‘Well!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘It would be very agreeable to me to present +a gentleman so connected, with some--ha--Testimonial of my desire to +further his interests, and develop the--hum--germs of his genius. I +think I must engage Mr Gowan to paint my picture. If the result should +be--ha--mutually satisfactory, I might afterwards engage him to try his +hand upon my family.’ + +The exquisitely bold and original thought presented itself to Mr +Sparkler, that there was an opening here for saying there were some of +the family (emphasising ‘some’ in a marked manner) to whom no painter +could render justice. But, for want of a form of words in which to +express the idea, it returned to the skies. + +This was the more to be regretted as Miss Fanny greatly applauded the +notion of the portrait, and urged her papa to act upon it. She surmised, +she said, that Mr Gowan had lost better and higher opportunities by +marrying his pretty wife; and Love in a cottage, painting pictures for +dinner, was so delightfully interesting, that she begged her papa to +give him the commission whether he could paint a likeness or not: though +indeed both she and Amy knew he could, from having seen a speaking +likeness on his easel that day, and having had the opportunity of +comparing it with the original. These remarks made Mr Sparkler (as +perhaps they were intended to do) nearly distracted; for while on +the one hand they expressed Miss Fanny’s susceptibility of the tender +passion, she herself showed such an innocent unconsciousness of his +admiration that his eyes goggled in his head with jealousy of an unknown +rival. + +Descending into the sea again after dinner, and ascending out of it +at the Opera staircase, preceded by one of their gondoliers, like an +attendant Merman, with a great linen lantern, they entered their box, +and Mr Sparkler entered on an evening of agony. The theatre being +dark, and the box light, several visitors lounged in during the +representation; in whom Fanny was so interested, and in conversation +with whom she fell into such charming attitudes, as she had little +confidences with them, and little disputes concerning the identity of +people in distant boxes, that the wretched Sparkler hated all mankind. +But he had two consolations at the close of the performance. She gave +him her fan to hold while she adjusted her cloak, and it was his +blessed privilege to give her his arm down-stairs again. These crumbs of +encouragement, Mr Sparkler thought, would just keep him going; and it is +not impossible that Miss Dorrit thought so too. + +The Merman with his light was ready at the box-door, and other Mermen +with other lights were ready at many of the doors. The Dorrit Merman +held his lantern low, to show the steps, and Mr Sparkler put on another +heavy set of fetters over his former set, as he watched her radiant +feet twinkling down the stairs beside him. Among the loiterers here, was +Blandois of Paris. He spoke, and moved forward beside Fanny. + +Little Dorrit was in front with her brother and Mrs General (Mr Dorrit +had remained at home), but on the brink of the quay they all came +together. She started again to find Blandois close to her, handing Fanny +into the boat. + +‘Gowan has had a loss,’ he said, ‘since he was made happy to-day by a +visit from fair ladies.’ + +‘A loss?’ repeated Fanny, relinquished by the bereaved Sparkler, and +taking her seat. + +‘A loss,’ said Blandois. ‘His dog Lion.’ + +Little Dorrit’s hand was in his, as he spoke. + + +‘He is dead,’ said Blandois. + +‘Dead?’ echoed Little Dorrit. ‘That noble dog?’ + +‘Faith, dear ladies!’ said Blandois, smiling and shrugging his +shoulders, ‘somebody has poisoned that noble dog. He is as dead as the +Doges!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism + + +Mrs General, always on her coach-box keeping the proprieties well +together, took pains to form a surface on her very dear young friend, +and Mrs General’s very dear young friend tried hard to receive it. Hard +as she had tried in her laborious life to attain many ends, she had +never tried harder than she did now, to be varnished by Mrs General. It +made her anxious and ill at ease to be operated upon by that smoothing +hand, it is true; but she submitted herself to the family want in +its greatness as she had submitted herself to the family want in its +littleness, and yielded to her own inclinations in this thing no more +than she had yielded to her hunger itself, in the days when she had +saved her dinner that her father might have his supper. + +One comfort that she had under the Ordeal by General was more +sustaining to her, and made her more grateful than to a less devoted +and affectionate spirit, not habituated to her struggles and sacrifices, +might appear quite reasonable; and, indeed, it may often be observed in +life, that spirits like Little Dorrit do not appear to reason half +as carefully as the folks who get the better of them. The continued +kindness of her sister was this comfort to Little Dorrit. It was nothing +to her that the kindness took the form of tolerant patronage; she was +used to that. It was nothing to her that it kept her in a tributary +position, and showed her in attendance on the flaming car in which Miss +Fanny sat on an elevated seat, exacting homage; she sought no better +place. Always admiring Fanny’s beauty, and grace, and readiness, and not +now asking herself how much of her disposition to be strongly attached +to Fanny was due to her own heart, and how much to Fanny’s, she gave her +all the sisterly fondness her great heart contained. + +The wholesale amount of Prunes and Prism which Mrs General infused into +the family life, combined with the perpetual plunges made by Fanny into +society, left but a very small residue of any natural deposit at the +bottom of the mixture. This rendered confidences with Fanny doubly +precious to Little Dorrit, and heightened the relief they afforded her. + +‘Amy,’ said Fanny to her one night when they were alone, after a day so +tiring that Little Dorrit was quite worn out, though Fanny would have +taken another dip into society with the greatest pleasure in life, ‘I +am going to put something into your little head. You won’t guess what it +is, I suspect.’ + +‘I don’t think that’s likely, dear,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘Come, I’ll give you a clue, child,’ said Fanny. ‘Mrs General.’ + +Prunes and Prism, in a thousand combinations, having been wearily in the +ascendant all day--everything having been surface and varnish and show +without substance--Little Dorrit looked as if she had hoped that Mrs +General was safely tucked up in bed for some hours. + +‘_Now_, can you guess, Amy?’ said Fanny. + +‘No, dear. Unless I have done anything,’ said Little Dorrit, rather +alarmed, and meaning anything calculated to crack varnish and ruffle +surface. + +Fanny was so very much amused by the misgiving, that she took up her +favourite fan (being then seated at her dressing-table with her armoury +of cruel instruments about her, most of them reeking from the heart +of Sparkler), and tapped her sister frequently on the nose with it, +laughing all the time. + +‘Oh, our Amy, our Amy!’ said Fanny. ‘What a timid little goose our Amy +is! But this is nothing to laugh at. On the contrary, I am very cross, +my dear.’ + +‘As it is not with me, Fanny, I don’t mind,’ returned her sister, +smiling. + +‘Ah! But I do mind,’ said Fanny, ‘and so will you, Pet, when I enlighten +you. Amy, has it never struck you that somebody is monstrously polite to +Mrs General?’ + +‘Everybody is polite to Mrs General,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Because--’ + +‘Because she freezes them into it?’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I don’t mean +that; quite different from that. Come! Has it never struck you, Amy, +that Pa is monstrously polite to Mrs General.’ + +Amy, murmuring ‘No,’ looked quite confounded. + +‘No; I dare say not. But he is,’ said Fanny. ‘He is, Amy. And remember +my words. Mrs General has designs on Pa!’ + +‘Dear Fanny, do you think it possible that Mrs General has designs on +any one?’ + +‘Do I think it possible?’ retorted Fanny. ‘My love, I know it. I tell +you she has designs on Pa. And more than that, I tell you Pa considers +her such a wonder, such a paragon of accomplishment, and such an +acquisition to our family, that he is ready to get himself into a state +of perfect infatuation with her at any moment. And that opens a pretty +picture of things, I hope? Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama!’ + +Little Dorrit did not reply, ‘Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama;’ +but she looked anxious, and seriously inquired what had led Fanny to +these conclusions. + +‘Lord, my darling,’ said Fanny, tartly. ‘You might as well ask me how +I know when a man is struck with myself! But, of course I do know. It +happens pretty often: but I always know it. I know this in much the same +way, I suppose. At all events, I know it.’ + +‘You never heard Papa say anything?’ + +‘Say anything?’ repeated Fanny. ‘My dearest, darling child, what +necessity has he had, yet awhile, to say anything?’ + +‘And you have never heard Mrs General say anything?’ + +‘My goodness me, Amy,’ returned Fanny, ‘is she the sort of woman to say +anything? Isn’t it perfectly plain and clear that she has nothing to do +at present but to hold herself upright, keep her aggravating gloves on, +and go sweeping about? Say anything! If she had the ace of trumps in her +hand at whist, she wouldn’t say anything, child. It would come out when +she played it.’ + +‘At least, you may be mistaken, Fanny. Now, may you not?’ + +‘O yes, I _may_ be,’ said Fanny, ‘but I am not. However, I am glad you +can contemplate such an escape, my dear, and I am glad that you can take +this for the present with sufficient coolness to think of such a chance. +It makes me hope that you may be able to bear the connection. I should +not be able to bear it, and I should not try. I’d marry young Sparkler +first.’ + +‘O, you would never marry him, Fanny, under any circumstances.’ + +‘Upon my word, my dear,’ rejoined that young lady with exceeding +indifference, ‘I wouldn’t positively answer even for that. There’s +no knowing what might happen. Especially as I should have many +opportunities, afterwards, of treating that woman, his mother, in her +own style. Which I most decidedly should not be slow to avail myself of, +Amy.’ + +No more passed between the sisters then; but what had passed gave the +two subjects of Mrs General and Mr Sparkler great prominence in Little +Dorrit’s mind, and thenceforth she thought very much of both. + +Mrs General, having long ago formed her own surface to such perfection +that it hid whatever was below it (if anything), no observation was to +be made in that quarter. Mr Dorrit was undeniably very polite to her +and had a high opinion of her; but Fanny, impetuous at most times, might +easily be wrong for all that. Whereas, the Sparkler question was on the +different footing that any one could see what was going on there, and +Little Dorrit saw it and pondered on it with many doubts and wonderings. + +The devotion of Mr Sparkler was only to be equalled by the caprice +and cruelty of his enslaver. Sometimes she would prefer him to such +distinction of notice, that he would chuckle aloud with joy; next day, +or next hour, she would overlook him so completely, and drop him into +such an abyss of obscurity, that he would groan under a weak pretence of +coughing. The constancy of his attendance never touched Fanny: though he +was so inseparable from Edward, that, when that gentleman wished for +a change of society, he was under the irksome necessity of gliding out +like a conspirator in disguised boats and by secret doors and back ways; +though he was so solicitous to know how Mr Dorrit was, that he called +every other day to inquire, as if Mr Dorrit were the prey of an +intermittent fever; though he was so constantly being paddled up and +down before the principal windows, that he might have been supposed to +have made a wager for a large stake to be paddled a thousand miles in +a thousand hours; though whenever the gondola of his mistress left the +gate, the gondola of Mr Sparkler shot out from some watery ambush +and gave chase, as if she were a fair smuggler and he a custom-house +officer. It was probably owing to this fortification of the natural +strength of his constitution with so much exposure to the air, and the +salt sea, that Mr Sparkler did not pine outwardly; but, whatever the +cause, he was so far from having any prospect of moving his mistress by +a languishing state of health, that he grew bluffer every day, and that +peculiarity in his appearance of seeming rather a swelled boy than +a young man, became developed to an extraordinary degree of ruddy +puffiness. + +Blandois calling to pay his respects, Mr Dorrit received him with +affability as the friend of Mr Gowan, and mentioned to him his idea of +commissioning Mr Gowan to transmit him to posterity. Blandois highly +extolling it, it occurred to Mr Dorrit that it might be agreeable to +Blandois to communicate to his friend the great opportunity reserved +for him. Blandois accepted the commission with his own free elegance of +manner, and swore he would discharge it before he was an hour older. On +his imparting the news to Gowan, that Master gave Mr Dorrit to the +Devil with great liberality some round dozen of times (for he resented +patronage almost as much as he resented the want of it), and was +inclined to quarrel with his friend for bringing him the message. + +‘It may be a defect in my mental vision, Blandois,’ said he, ‘but may I +die if I see what you have to do with this.’ + +‘Death of my life,’ replied Blandois, ‘nor I neither, except that I +thought I was serving my friend.’ + +‘By putting an upstart’s hire in his pocket?’ said Gowan, frowning. +‘Do you mean that? Tell your other friend to get his head painted for +the sign of some public-house, and to get it done by a sign-painter. Who +am I, and who is he?’ + +‘Professore,’ returned the ambassador, ‘and who is Blandois?’ + +Without appearing at all interested in the latter question, Gowan +angrily whistled Mr Dorrit away. But, next day, he resumed the subject +by saying in his off-hand manner and with a slighting laugh, ‘Well, +Blandois, when shall we go to this Maecenas of yours? We journeymen must +take jobs when we can get them. When shall we go and look after this +job?’ + +‘When you will,’ said the injured Blandois, ‘as you please. What have I +to do with it? What is it to me?’ + +‘I can tell you what it is to me,’ said Gowan. ‘Bread and cheese. One +must eat! So come along, my Blandois.’ + +Mr Dorrit received them in the presence of his daughters and of Mr +Sparkler, who happened, by some surprising accident, to be calling +there. ‘How are you, Sparkler?’ said Gowan carelessly. ‘When you have +to live by your mother wit, old boy, I hope you may get on better than I +do.’ + +Mr Dorrit then mentioned his proposal. ‘Sir,’ said Gowan, laughing, +after receiving it gracefully enough, ‘I am new to the trade, and not +expert at its mysteries. I believe I ought to look at you in various +lights, tell you you are a capital subject, and consider when I shall be +sufficiently disengaged to devote myself with the necessary enthusiasm +to the fine picture I mean to make of you. I assure you,’ and he laughed +again, ‘I feel quite a traitor in the camp of those dear, gifted, good, +noble fellows, my brother artists, by not doing the hocus-pocus better. +But I have not been brought up to it, and it’s too late to learn it. +Now, the fact is, I am a very bad painter, but not much worse than the +generality. If you are going to throw away a hundred guineas or so, I +am as poor as a poor relation of great people usually is, and I shall be +very much obliged to you, if you’ll throw them away upon me. I’ll do the +best I can for the money; and if the best should be bad, why even then, +you may probably have a bad picture with a small name to it, instead of +a bad picture with a large name to it.’ + +This tone, though not what he had expected, on the whole suited Mr +Dorrit remarkably well. It showed that the gentleman, highly connected, +and not a mere workman, would be under an obligation to him. He +expressed his satisfaction in placing himself in Mr Gowan’s hands, and +trusted that he would have the pleasure, in their characters of private +gentlemen, of improving his acquaintance. + +‘You are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘I have not forsworn society since I +joined the brotherhood of the brush (the most delightful fellows on the +face of the earth), and am glad enough to smell the old fine gunpowder +now and then, though it did blow me into mid-air and my present calling. +You’ll not think, Mr Dorrit,’ and here he laughed again in the easiest +way, ‘that I am lapsing into the freemasonry of the craft--for it’s not +so; upon my life I can’t help betraying it wherever I go, though, by +Jupiter, I love and honour the craft with all my might--if I propose a +stipulation as to time and place?’ + +Ha! Mr Dorrit could erect no--hum--suspicion of that kind on Mr Gowan’s +frankness. + +‘Again you are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘Mr Dorrit, I hear you are going +to Rome. I am going to Rome, having friends there. Let me begin to do +you the injustice I have conspired to do you, there--not here. We shall +all be hurried during the rest of our stay here; and though there’s not +a poorer man with whole elbows in Venice, than myself, I have not quite +got all the Amateur out of me yet--comprising the trade again, you +see!--and can’t fall on to order, in a hurry, for the mere sake of the +sixpences.’ + +These remarks were not less favourably received by Mr Dorrit than their +predecessors. They were the prelude to the first reception of Mr and Mrs +Gowan at dinner, and they skilfully placed Gowan on his usual ground in +the new family. + +His wife, too, they placed on her usual ground. Miss Fanny understood, +with particular distinctness, that Mrs Gowan’s good looks had cost her +husband very dear; that there had been a great disturbance about her +in the Barnacle family; and that the Dowager Mrs Gowan, nearly +heart-broken, had resolutely set her face against the marriage until +overpowered by her maternal feelings. Mrs General likewise clearly +understood that the attachment had occasioned much family grief and +dissension. Of honest Mr Meagles no mention was made; except that it +was natural enough that a person of that sort should wish to raise his +daughter out of his own obscurity, and that no one could blame him for +trying his best to do so. + +Little Dorrit’s interest in the fair subject of this easily accepted +belief was too earnest and watchful to fail in accurate observation. She +could see that it had its part in throwing upon Mrs Gowan the touch of a +shadow under which she lived, and she even had an instinctive knowledge +that there was not the least truth in it. But it had an influence in +placing obstacles in the way of her association with Mrs Gowan by making +the Prunes and Prism school excessively polite to her, but not very +intimate with her; and Little Dorrit, as an enforced sizar of that +college, was obliged to submit herself humbly to its ordinances. + +Nevertheless, there was a sympathetic understanding already +established between the two, which would have carried them over +greater difficulties, and made a friendship out of a more restricted +intercourse. As though accidents were determined to be favourable to +it, they had a new assurance of congeniality in the aversion which each +perceived that the other felt towards Blandois of Paris; an aversion +amounting to the repugnance and horror of a natural antipathy towards an +odious creature of the reptile kind. + +And there was a passive congeniality between them, besides this active +one. To both of them, Blandois behaved in exactly the same manner; and +to both of them his manner had uniformly something in it, which +they both knew to be different from his bearing towards others. The +difference was too minute in its expression to be perceived by others, +but they knew it to be there. A mere trick of his evil eyes, a mere turn +of his smooth white hand, a mere hair’s-breadth of addition to the fall +of his nose and the rise of the moustache in the most frequent movement +of his face, conveyed to both of them, equally, a swagger personal to +themselves. It was as if he had said, ‘I have a secret power in this +quarter. I know what I know.’ + +This had never been felt by them both in so great a degree, and never +by each so perfectly to the knowledge of the other, as on a day when he +came to Mr Dorrit’s to take his leave before quitting Venice. Mrs +Gowan was herself there for the same purpose, and he came upon the +two together; the rest of the family being out. The two had not been +together five minutes, and the peculiar manner seemed to convey to them, +‘You were going to talk about me. Ha! Behold me here to prevent it!’ + +‘Gowan is coming here?’ said Blandois, with a smile. + +Mrs Gowan replied he was not coming. + +‘Not coming!’ said Blandois. ‘Permit your devoted servant, when you +leave here, to escort you home.’ + +‘Thank you: I am not going home.’ + +‘Not going home!’ said Blandois. ‘Then I am forlorn.’ + +That he might be; but he was not so forlorn as to roam away and leave +them together. He sat entertaining them with his finest compliments, and +his choicest conversation; but he conveyed to them, all the time, ‘No, +no, no, dear ladies. Behold me here expressly to prevent it!’ + +He conveyed it to them with so much meaning, and he had such a +diabolical persistency in him, that at length, Mrs Gowan rose to depart. +On his offering his hand to Mrs Gowan to lead her down the staircase, +she retained Little Dorrit’s hand in hers, with a cautious pressure, and +said, ‘No, thank you. But, if you will please to see if my boatman is +there, I shall be obliged to you.’ + +It left him no choice but to go down before them. As he did so, hat in +hand, Mrs Gowan whispered: + +‘He killed the dog.’ + +‘Does Mr Gowan know it?’ Little Dorrit whispered. + +‘No one knows it. Don’t look towards me; look towards him. He will turn +his face in a moment. No one knows it, but I am sure he did. You are?’ + +‘I--I think so,’ Little Dorrit answered. + +‘Henry likes him, and he will not think ill of him; he is so generous +and open himself. But you and I feel sure that we think of him as he +deserves. He argued with Henry that the dog had been already poisoned +when he changed so, and sprang at him. Henry believes it, but we do not. +I see he is listening, but can’t hear. Good-bye, my love! Good-bye!’ + +The last words were spoken aloud, as the vigilant Blandois stopped, +turned his head, and looked at them from the bottom of the staircase. +Assuredly he did look then, though he looked his politest, as if any +real philanthropist could have desired no better employment than to lash +a great stone to his neck, and drop him into the water flowing beyond +the dark arched gateway in which he stood. No such benefactor to mankind +being on the spot, he handed Mrs Gowan to her boat, and stood there +until it had shot out of the narrow view; when he handed himself into +his own boat and followed. + +Little Dorrit had sometimes thought, and now thought again as she +retraced her steps up the staircase, that he had made his way too easily +into her father’s house. But so many and such varieties of people did +the same, through Mr Dorrit’s participation in his elder daughter’s +society mania, that it was hardly an exceptional case. A perfect fury +for making acquaintances on whom to impress their riches and importance, +had seized the House of Dorrit. + +It appeared on the whole, to Little Dorrit herself, that this same +society in which they lived, greatly resembled a superior sort of +Marshalsea. Numbers of people seemed to come abroad, pretty much +as people had come into the prison; through debt, through idleness, +relationship, curiosity, and general unfitness for getting on at home. +They were brought into these foreign towns in the custody of couriers +and local followers, just as the debtors had been brought into the +prison. They prowled about the churches and picture-galleries, much in +the old, dreary, prison-yard manner. They were usually going away again +to-morrow or next week, and rarely knew their own minds, and seldom did +what they said they would do, or went where they said they would go: in +all this again, very like the prison debtors. They paid high for poor +accommodation, and disparaged a place while they pretended to like it: +which was exactly the Marshalsea custom. They were envied when they went +away by people left behind, feigning not to want to go: and that again +was the Marshalsea habit invariably. A certain set of words and phrases, +as much belonging to tourists as the College and the Snuggery belonged +to the jail, was always in their mouths. They had precisely the same +incapacity for settling down to anything, as the prisoners used to have; +they rather deteriorated one another, as the prisoners used to do; and +they wore untidy dresses, and fell into a slouching way of life: still, +always like the people in the Marshalsea. + +The period of the family’s stay at Venice came, in its course, to an +end, and they moved, with their retinue, to Rome. Through a repetition +of the former Italian scenes, growing more dirty and more haggard as +they went on, and bringing them at length to where the very air was +diseased, they passed to their destination. A fine residence had been +taken for them on the Corso, and there they took up their abode, in a +city where everything seemed to be trying to stand still for ever on +the ruins of something else--except the water, which, following eternal +laws, tumbled and rolled from its glorious multitude of fountains. + +Here it seemed to Little Dorrit that a change came over the Marshalsea +spirit of their society, and that Prunes and Prism got the upper hand. +Everybody was walking about St Peter’s and the Vatican on somebody +else’s cork legs, and straining every visible object through somebody +else’s sieve. Nobody said what anything was, but everybody said what the +Mrs Generals, Mr Eustace, or somebody else said it was. The whole body +of travellers seemed to be a collection of voluntary human sacrifices, +bound hand and foot, and delivered over to Mr Eustace and his +attendants, to have the entrails of their intellects arranged according +to the taste of that sacred priesthood. Through the rugged remains +of temples and tombs and palaces and senate halls and theatres and +amphitheatres of ancient days, hosts of tongue-tied and blindfolded +moderns were carefully feeling their way, incessantly repeating Prunes +and Prism in the endeavour to set their lips according to the received +form. Mrs General was in her pure element. Nobody had an opinion. There +was a formation of surface going on around her on an amazing scale, and +it had not a flaw of courage or honest free speech in it. + +Another modification of Prunes and Prism insinuated itself on Little +Dorrit’s notice very shortly after their arrival. They received an early +visit from Mrs Merdle, who led that extensive department of life in the +Eternal City that winter; and the skilful manner in which she and Fanny +fenced with one another on the occasion, almost made her quiet sister +wink, like the glittering of small-swords. + +‘So delighted,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘to resume an acquaintance so +inauspiciously begun at Martigny.’ + +‘At Martigny, of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Charmed, I am sure!’ + +‘I understand,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘from my son Edmund Sparkler, that +he has already improved that chance occasion. He has returned quite +transported with Venice.’ + +‘Indeed?’ returned the careless Fanny. ‘Was he there long?’ + +‘I might refer that question to Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, turning the +bosom towards that gentleman; ‘Edmund having been so much indebted to +him for rendering his stay agreeable.’ + +‘Oh, pray don’t speak of it,’ returned Fanny. ‘I believe Papa had the +pleasure of inviting Mr Sparkler twice or thrice,--but it was nothing. +We had so many people about us, and kept such open house, that if he had +that pleasure, it was less than nothing.’ + +‘Except, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘except--ha--as it afforded me +unusual gratification to--hum--show by any means, however slight and +worthless, the--ha, hum--high estimation in which, in--ha--common with +the rest of the world, I hold so distinguished and princely a character +as Mr Merdle’s.’ + +The bosom received this tribute in its most engaging manner. ‘Mr +Merdle,’ observed Fanny, as a means of dismissing Mr Sparkler into the +background, ‘is quite a theme of Papa’s, you must know, Mrs Merdle.’ + +‘I have been--ha--disappointed, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to understand +from Mr Sparkler that there is no great--hum--probability of Mr Merdle’s +coming abroad.’ + +‘Why, indeed,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘he is so much engaged and in such +request, that I fear not. He has not been able to get abroad for years. +You, Miss Dorrit, I believe have been almost continually abroad for a +long time.’ + +‘Oh dear yes,’ drawled Fanny, with the greatest hardihood. ‘An immense +number of years.’ + +‘So I should have inferred,’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘Exactly,’ said Fanny. + +‘I trust, however,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ‘that if I have not +the--hum--great advantage of becoming known to Mr Merdle on this side +of the Alps or Mediterranean, I shall have that honour on returning to +England. It is an honour I particularly desire and shall particularly +esteem.’ + +‘Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle, who had been looking admiringly at Fanny +through her eye-glass, ‘will esteem it, I am sure, no less.’ + +Little Dorrit, still habitually thoughtful and solitary though no longer +alone, at first supposed this to be mere Prunes and Prism. But as her +father when they had been to a brilliant reception at Mrs Merdle’s, +harped at their own family breakfast-table on his wish to know Mr +Merdle, with the contingent view of benefiting by the advice of that +wonderful man in the disposal of his fortune, she began to think it had +a real meaning, and to entertain a curiosity on her own part to see the +shining light of the time. + + + + +CHAPTER 8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’ + + +While the waters of Venice and the ruins of Rome were sunning themselves +for the pleasure of the Dorrit family, and were daily being sketched +out of all earthly proportion, lineament, and likeness, by travelling +pencils innumerable, the firm of Doyce and Clennam hammered away in +Bleeding Heart Yard, and the vigorous clink of iron upon iron was heard +there through the working hours. + +The younger partner had, by this time, brought the business into sound +trim; and the elder, left free to follow his own ingenious devices, had +done much to enhance the character of the factory. As an ingenious man, +he had necessarily to encounter every discouragement that the ruling +powers for a length of time had been able by any means to put in the way +of this class of culprits; but that was only reasonable self-defence in +the powers, since How to do it must obviously be regarded as the natural +and mortal enemy of How not to do it. In this was to be found the basis +of the wise system, by tooth and nail upheld by the Circumlocution +Office, of warning every ingenious British subject to be ingenious +at his peril: of harassing him, obstructing him, inviting robbers (by +making his remedy uncertain, and expensive) to plunder him, and at the +best of confiscating his property after a short term of enjoyment, as +though invention were on a par with felony. The system had uniformly +found great favour with the Barnacles, and that was only reasonable, +too; for one who worthily invents must be in earnest, and the Barnacles +abhorred and dreaded nothing half so much. That again was very +reasonable; since in a country suffering under the affliction of a great +amount of earnestness, there might, in an exceeding short space of time, +be not a single Barnacle left sticking to a post. + +Daniel Doyce faced his condition with its pains and penalties attached +to it, and soberly worked on for the work’s sake. Clennam cheering him +with a hearty co-operation, was a moral support to him, besides doing +good service in his business relation. The concern prospered, and the +partners were fast friends. + +But Daniel could not forget the old design of so many years. It was not +in reason to be expected that he should; if he could have lightly +forgotten it, he could never have conceived it, or had the patience and +perseverance to work it out. So Clennam thought, when he sometimes +observed him of an evening looking over the models and drawings, and +consoling himself by muttering with a sigh as he put them away again, +that the thing was as true as it ever was. + +To show no sympathy with so much endeavour, and so much disappointment, +would have been to fail in what Clennam regarded as among the implied +obligations of his partnership. A revival of the passing interest in +the subject which had been by chance awakened at the door of the +Circumlocution Office, originated in this feeling. He asked his partner +to explain the invention to him; ‘having a lenient consideration,’ he +stipulated, ‘for my being no workman, Doyce.’ + +‘No workman?’ said Doyce. ‘You would have been a thorough workman if you +had given yourself to it. You have as good a head for understanding such +things as I have met with.’ + +‘A totally uneducated one, I am sorry to add,’ said Clennam. + +‘I don’t know that,’ returned Doyce, ‘and I wouldn’t have you say +that. No man of sense who has been generally improved, and has improved +himself, can be called quite uneducated as to anything. I don’t +particularly favour mysteries. I would as soon, on a fair and clear +explanation, be judged by one class of man as another, provided he had +the qualification I have named.’ + +‘At all events,’ said Clennam--‘this sounds as if we were exchanging +compliments, but we know we are not--I shall have the advantage of as +plain an explanation as can be given.’ + +‘Well!’ said Daniel, in his steady even way, ‘I’ll try to make it so.’ + +He had the power, often to be found in union with such a character, of +explaining what he himself perceived, and meant, with the direct force +and distinctness with which it struck his own mind. His manner of +demonstration was so orderly and neat and simple, that it was not easy +to mistake him. There was something almost ludicrous in the complete +irreconcilability of a vague conventional notion that he must be a +visionary man, with the precise, sagacious travelling of his eye and +thumb over the plans, their patient stoppages at particular points, +their careful returns to other points whence little channels of +explanation had to be traced up, and his steady manner of making +everything good and everything sound at each important stage, before +taking his hearer on a line’s-breadth further. His dismissal of himself +from his description, was hardly less remarkable. He never said, I +discovered this adaptation or invented that combination; but showed the +whole thing as if the Divine artificer had made it, and he had happened +to find it; so modest he was about it, such a pleasant touch of respect +was mingled with his quiet admiration of it, and so calmly convinced he +was that it was established on irrefragable laws. + +Not only that evening, but for several succeeding evenings, Clennam was +quite charmed by this investigation. The more he pursued it, and the +oftener he glanced at the grey head bending over it, and the shrewd eye +kindling with pleasure in it and love of it--instrument for probing his +heart though it had been made for twelve long years--the less he could +reconcile it to his younger energy to let it go without one effort more. +At length he said: + +‘Doyce, it came to this at last--that the business was to be sunk with +Heaven knows how many more wrecks, or begun all over again?’ + +‘Yes,’ returned Doyce, ‘that’s what the noblemen and gentlemen made of +it after a dozen years.’ + +‘And pretty fellows too!’ said Clennam, bitterly. + +‘The usual thing!’ observed Doyce. ‘I must not make a martyr of myself, +when I am one of so large a company.’ + +‘Relinquish it, or begin it all over again?’ mused Clennam. + +‘That was exactly the long and the short of it,’ said Doyce. + +‘Then, my friend,’ cried Clennam, starting up and taking his +work-roughened hand, ‘it shall be begun all over again!’ + +Doyce looked alarmed, and replied in a hurry--for him, ‘No, no. Better +put it by. Far better put it by. It will be heard of, one day. I can +put it by. You forget, my good Clennam; I _have_ put it by. It’s all at an +end.’ + +‘Yes, Doyce,’ returned Clennam, ‘at an end as far as your efforts and +rebuffs are concerned, I admit, but not as far as mine are. I am younger +than you: I have only once set foot in that precious office, and I am +fresh game for them. Come! I’ll try them. You shall do exactly as you +have been doing since we have been together. I will add (as I easily +can) to what I have been doing, the attempt to get public justice done +to you; and, unless I have some success to report, you shall hear no +more of it.’ + +Daniel Doyce was still reluctant to consent, and again and again urged +that they had better put it by. But it was natural that he should +gradually allow himself to be over-persuaded by Clennam, and should +yield. Yield he did. So Arthur resumed the long and hopeless labour of +striving to make way with the Circumlocution Office. + +The waiting-rooms of that Department soon began to be familiar with his +presence, and he was generally ushered into them by its janitors much +as a pickpocket might be shown into a police-office; the principal +difference being that the object of the latter class of public business +is to keep the pickpocket, while the Circumlocution object was to +get rid of Clennam. However, he was resolved to stick to the Great +Department; and so the work of form-filling, corresponding, minuting, +memorandum-making, signing, counter-signing, counter-counter-signing, +referring backwards and forwards, and referring sideways, crosswise, and +zig-zag, recommenced. + +Here arises a feature of the Circumlocution Office, not previously +mentioned in the present record. When that admirable Department got +into trouble, and was, by some infuriated members of Parliament whom +the smaller Barnacles almost suspected of labouring under diabolic +possession, attacked on the merits of no individual case, but as an +Institution wholly abominable and Bedlamite; then the noble or right +honourable Barnacle who represented it in the House, would smite that +member and cleave him asunder, with a statement of the quantity of +business (for the prevention of business) done by the Circumlocution +Office. Then would that noble or right honourable Barnacle hold in his +hand a paper containing a few figures, to which, with the permission +of the House, he would entreat its attention. Then would the inferior +Barnacles exclaim, obeying orders, ‘Hear, Hear, Hear!’ and ‘Read!’ Then +would the noble or right honourable Barnacle perceive, sir, from this +little document, which he thought might carry conviction even to the +perversest mind (Derisive laughter and cheering from the Barnacle fry), +that within the short compass of the last financial half-year, this +much-maligned Department (Cheers) had written and received fifteen +thousand letters (Loud cheers), had written twenty-four thousand minutes +(Louder cheers), and thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventeen +memoranda (Vehement cheering). Nay, an ingenious gentleman connected +with the Department, and himself a valuable public servant, had done +him the favour to make a curious calculation of the amount of stationery +consumed in it during the same period. It formed a part of this same +short document; and he derived from it the remarkable fact that the +sheets of foolscap paper it had devoted to the public service would pave +the footways on both sides of Oxford Street from end to end, and leave +nearly a quarter of a mile to spare for the park (Immense cheering and +laughter); while of tape--red tape--it had used enough to stretch, in +graceful festoons, from Hyde Park Corner to the General Post Office. +Then, amidst a burst of official exultation, would the noble or right +honourable Barnacle sit down, leaving the mutilated fragments of the +Member on the field. No one, after that exemplary demolition of him, +would have the hardihood to hint that the more the Circumlocution Office +did, the less was done, and that the greatest blessing it could confer +on an unhappy public would be to do nothing. + +With sufficient occupation on his hands, now that he had this additional +task--such a task had many and many a serviceable man died of before his +day--Arthur Clennam led a life of slight variety. Regular visits to his +mother’s dull sick room, and visits scarcely less regular to Mr Meagles +at Twickenham, were its only changes during many months. + +He sadly and sorely missed Little Dorrit. He had been prepared to miss +her very much, but not so much. He knew to the full extent only through +experience, what a large place in his life was left blank when her +familiar little figure went out of it. He felt, too, that he must +relinquish the hope of its return, understanding the family character +sufficiently well to be assured that he and she were divided by a broad +ground of separation. The old interest he had had in her, and her old +trusting reliance on him, were tinged with melancholy in his mind: so +soon had change stolen over them, and so soon had they glided into the +past with other secret tendernesses. + +When he received her letter he was greatly moved, but did not the less +sensibly feel that she was far divided from him by more than distance. +It helped him to a clearer and keener perception of the place assigned +him by the family. He saw that he was cherished in her grateful +remembrance secretly, and that they resented him with the jail and the +rest of its belongings. + +Through all these meditations which every day of his life crowded about +her, he thought of her otherwise in the old way. She was his innocent +friend, his delicate child, his dear Little Dorrit. This very change +of circumstances fitted curiously in with the habit, begun on the night +when the roses floated away, of considering himself as a much older man +than his years really made him. He regarded her from a point of view +which in its remoteness, tender as it was, he little thought would have +been unspeakable agony to her. He speculated about her future destiny, +and about the husband she might have, with an affection for her which +would have drained her heart of its dearest drop of hope, and broken it. + +Everything about him tended to confirm him in the custom of looking on +himself as an elderly man, from whom such aspirations as he had combated +in the case of Minnie Gowan (though that was not so long ago either, +reckoning by months and seasons), were finally departed. His relations +with her father and mother were like those on which a widower son-in-law +might have stood. If the twin sister who was dead had lived to pass away +in the bloom of womanhood, and he had been her husband, the nature of +his intercourse with Mr and Mrs Meagles would probably have been just +what it was. This imperceptibly helped to render habitual the impression +within him, that he had done with, and dismissed that part of life. + +He invariably heard of Minnie from them, as telling them in her letters +how happy she was, and how she loved her husband; but inseparable from +that subject, he invariably saw the old cloud on Mr Meagles’s face. Mr +Meagles had never been quite so radiant since the marriage as before. +He had never quite recovered the separation from Pet. He was the same +good-humoured, open creature; but as if his face, from being much turned +towards the pictures of his two children which could show him only one +look, unconsciously adopted a characteristic from them, it always had +now, through all its changes of expression, a look of loss in it. + +One wintry Saturday when Clennam was at the cottage, the Dowager Mrs +Gowan drove up, in the Hampton Court equipage which pretended to be the +exclusive equipage of so many individual proprietors. She descended, in +her shady ambuscade of green fan, to favour Mr and Mrs Meagles with a +call. + +‘And how do you both do, Papa and Mama Meagles?’ said she, encouraging +her humble connections. ‘And when did you last hear from or about my +poor fellow?’ + +My poor fellow was her son; and this mode of speaking of him politely +kept alive, without any offence in the world, the pretence that he had +fallen a victim to the Meagles’ wiles. + +‘And the dear pretty one?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Have you later news of her +than I have?’ + +Which also delicately implied that her son had been captured by mere +beauty, and under its fascination had forgone all sorts of worldly +advantages. + +‘I am sure,’ said Mrs Gowan, without straining her attention on the +answers she received, ‘it’s an unspeakable comfort to know they continue +happy. My poor fellow is of such a restless disposition, and has been +so used to roving about, and to being inconstant and popular among all +manner of people, that it’s the greatest comfort in life. I suppose +they’re as poor as mice, Papa Meagles?’ + +Mr Meagles, fidgety under the question, replied, ‘I hope not, ma’am. I +hope they will manage their little income.’ + +‘Oh! my dearest Meagles!’ returned the lady, tapping him on the arm with +the green fan and then adroitly interposing it between a yawn and +the company, ‘how can you, as a man of the world and one of the most +business-like of human beings--for you know you are business-like, and a +great deal too much for us who are not--’ + +(Which went to the former purpose, by making Mr Meagles out to be an +artful schemer.) + +‘--How can you talk about their managing their little means? My poor +dear fellow! The idea of his managing hundreds! And the sweet pretty +creature too. The notion of her managing! Papa Meagles! Don’t!’ + +‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, gravely, ‘I am sorry to admit, then, +that Henry certainly does anticipate his means.’ + +‘My dear good man--I use no ceremony with you, because we are a kind of +relations;--positively, Mama Meagles,’ exclaimed Mrs Gowan cheerfully, +as if the absurd coincidence then flashed upon her for the first time, +‘a kind of relations! My dear good man, in this world none of us can +have _everything_ our own way.’ + +This again went to the former point, and showed Mr Meagles with all good +breeding that, so far, he had been brilliantly successful in his deep +designs. Mrs Gowan thought the hit so good a one, that she dwelt upon +it; repeating ‘Not _everything_. No, no; in this world we must not expect +_everything_, Papa Meagles.’ + +‘And may I ask, ma’am,’ retorted Mr Meagles, a little heightened in +colour, ‘who does expect everything?’ + +‘Oh, nobody, nobody!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I was going to say--but you put +me out. You interrupting Papa, what was I going to say?’ + +Drooping her large green fan, she looked musingly at Mr Meagles while +she thought about it; a performance not tending to the cooling of that +gentleman’s rather heated spirits. + +‘Ah! Yes, to be sure!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘You must remember that my poor +fellow has always been accustomed to expectations. They may have been +realised, or they may not have been realised--’ + +‘Let us say, then, may not have been realised,’ observed Mr Meagles. + +The Dowager for a moment gave him an angry look; but tossed it off with +her head and her fan, and pursued the tenor of her way in her former +manner. + +‘It makes no difference. My poor fellow has been accustomed to that +sort of thing, and of course you knew it, and were prepared for the +consequences. I myself always clearly foresaw the consequences, and am +not surprised. And you must not be surprised. In fact, can’t be +surprised. Must have been prepared for it.’ + +Mr Meagles looked at his wife and at Clennam; bit his lip; and coughed. + +‘And now here’s my poor fellow,’ Mrs Gowan pursued, ‘receiving notice +that he is to hold himself in expectation of a baby, and all the +expenses attendant on such an addition to his family! Poor Henry! But +it can’t be helped now; it’s too late to help it now. Only don’t talk of +anticipating means, Papa Meagles, as a discovery; because that would be +too much.’ + +‘Too much, ma’am?’ said Mr Meagles, as seeking an explanation. + +‘There, there!’ said Mrs Gowan, putting him in his inferior place with +an expressive action of her hand. ‘Too much for my poor fellow’s +mother to bear at this time of day. They are fast married, and can’t +be unmarried. There, there! I know that! You needn’t tell me that, Papa +Meagles. I know it very well. What was it I said just now? That it was +a great comfort they continued happy. It is to be hoped they will still +continue happy. It is to be hoped Pretty One will do everything she +can to make my poor fellow happy, and keep him contented. Papa and Mama +Meagles, we had better say no more about it. We never did look at this +subject from the same side, and we never shall. There, there! Now I am +good.’ + +Truly, having by this time said everything she could say in maintenance +of her wonderfully mythical position, and in admonition to Mr Meagles +that he must not expect to bear his honours of alliance too cheaply, Mrs +Gowan was disposed to forgo the rest. If Mr Meagles had submitted to +a glance of entreaty from Mrs Meagles, and an expressive gesture from +Clennam, he would have left her in the undisturbed enjoyment of this +state of mind. But Pet was the darling and pride of his heart; and if he +could ever have championed her more devotedly, or loved her better, than +in the days when she was the sunlight of his house, it would have been +now, when, as its daily grace and delight, she was lost to it. + +‘Mrs Gowan, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I have been a plain man all my +life. If I was to try--no matter whether on myself, on somebody else, +or both--any genteel mystifications, I should probably not succeed in +them.’ + +‘Papa Meagles,’ returned the Dowager, with an affable smile, but with +the bloom on her cheeks standing out a little more vividly than usual as +the neighbouring surface became paler, ‘probably not.’ + +‘Therefore, my good madam,’ said Mr Meagles, at great pains to +restrain himself, ‘I hope I may, without offence, ask to have no such +mystification played off upon me.’ + +‘Mama Meagles,’ observed Mrs Gowan, ‘your good man is incomprehensible.’ + +Her turning to that worthy lady was an artifice to bring her into the +discussion, quarrel with her, and vanquish her. Mr Meagles interposed to +prevent that consummation. + +‘Mother,’ said he, ‘you are inexpert, my dear, and it is not a fair +match. Let me beg of you to remain quiet. Come, Mrs Gowan, come! Let +us try to be sensible; let us try to be good-natured; let us try to +be fair. Don’t you pity Henry, and I won’t pity Pet. And don’t be +one-sided, my dear madam; it’s not considerate, it’s not kind. Don’t +let us say that we hope Pet will make Henry happy, or even that we hope +Henry will make Pet happy,’ (Mr Meagles himself did not look happy as he +spoke the words,) ‘but let us hope they will make each other happy.’ + +‘Yes, sure, and there leave it, father,’ said Mrs Meagles the +kind-hearted and comfortable. + +‘Why, mother, no,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘not exactly there. I can’t +quite leave it there; I must say just half-a-dozen words more. Mrs +Gowan, I hope I am not over-sensitive. I believe I don’t look it.’ + +‘Indeed you do not,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her head and the great +green fan together, for emphasis. + +‘Thank you, ma’am; that’s well. Notwithstanding which, I feel a +little--I don’t want to use a strong word--now shall I say hurt?’ +asked Mr Meagles at once with frankness and moderation, and with a +conciliatory appeal in his tone. + +‘Say what you like,’ answered Mrs Gowan. ‘It is perfectly indifferent to +me.’ + +‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Mr Meagles, ‘because that’s not +responding amiably. I feel a little hurt when I hear references made to +consequences having been foreseen, and to its being too late now, and so +forth.’ + +‘_Do_ you, Papa Meagles?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I am not surprised.’ + +‘Well, ma’am,’ reasoned Mr Meagles, ‘I was in hopes you would have been +at least surprised, because to hurt me wilfully on so tender a subject +is surely not generous.’ + +‘I am not responsible,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for your conscience, you know.’ + +Poor Mr Meagles looked aghast with astonishment. + +‘If I am unluckily obliged to carry a cap about with me, which is yours +and fits you,’ pursued Mrs Gowan, ‘don’t blame me for its pattern, Papa +Meagles, I beg!’ + +‘Why, good Lord, ma’am!’ Mr Meagles broke out, ‘that’s as much as to +state--’ + +‘Now, Papa Meagles, Papa Meagles,’ said Mrs Gowan, who became extremely +deliberate and prepossessing in manner whenever that gentleman became at +all warm, ‘perhaps to prevent confusion, I had better speak for myself +than trouble your kindness to speak for me. It’s as much as to state, +you begin. If you please, I will finish the sentence. It is as much as +to state--not that I wish to press it or even recall it, for it is of no +use now, and my only wish is to make the best of existing +circumstances--that from the first to the last I always objected to this +match of yours, and at a very late period yielded a most unwilling +consent to it.’ + +‘Mother!’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Do you hear this! Arthur! Do you hear +this!’ + +‘The room being of a convenient size,’ said Mrs Gowan, looking about +as she fanned herself, ‘and quite charmingly adapted in all respects to +conversation, I should imagine I am audible in any part of it.’ + +Some moments passed in silence, before Mr Meagles could hold himself in +his chair with sufficient security to prevent his breaking out of it at +the next word he spoke. At last he said: ‘Ma’am, I am very unwilling to +revive them, but I must remind you what my opinions and my course were, +all along, on that unfortunate subject.’ + +‘O, my dear sir!’ said Mrs Gowan, smiling and shaking her head with +accusatory intelligence, ‘they were well understood by me, I assure +you.’ + +‘I never, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘knew unhappiness before that time, +I never knew anxiety before that time. It was a time of such distress to +me that--’ That Mr Meagles could really say no more about it, in short, +but passed his handkerchief before his face. + +‘I understood the whole affair,’ said Mrs Gowan, composedly looking +over her fan. ‘As you have appealed to Mr Clennam, I may appeal to Mr +Clennam, too. He knows whether I did or not.’ + +‘I am very unwilling,’ said Clennam, looked to by all parties, ‘to take +any share in this discussion, more especially because I wish to preserve +the best understanding and the clearest relations with Mr Henry Gowan. +I have very strong reasons indeed, for entertaining that wish. Mrs Gowan +attributed certain views of furthering the marriage to my friend here, +in conversation with me before it took place; and I endeavoured to +undeceive her. I represented that I knew him (as I did and do) to be +strenuously opposed to it, both in opinion and action.’ + +‘You see?’ said Mrs Gowan, turning the palms of her hands towards Mr +Meagles, as if she were Justice herself, representing to him that he had +better confess, for he had not a leg to stand on. ‘You see? Very good! +Now Papa and Mama Meagles both!’ here she rose; ‘allow me to take the +liberty of putting an end to this rather formidable controversy. I will +not say another word upon its merits. I will only say that it is an +additional proof of what one knows from all experience; that this kind +of thing never answers--as my poor fellow himself would say, that it +never pays--in one word, that it never does.’ + +Mr Meagles asked, What kind of thing? + +‘It is in vain,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for people to attempt to get on +together who have such extremely different antecedents; who are jumbled +against each other in this accidental, matrimonial sort of way; and who +cannot look at the untoward circumstance which has shaken them together +in the same light. It never does.’ + +Mr Meagles was beginning, ‘Permit me to say, ma’am--’ + +‘No, don’t,’ returned Mrs Gowan. ‘Why should you! It is an ascertained +fact. It never does. I will therefore, if you please, go my way, leaving +you to yours. I shall at all times be happy to receive my poor fellow’s +pretty wife, and I shall always make a point of being on the most +affectionate terms with her. But as to these terms, semi-family and +semi-stranger, semi-goring and semi-boring, they form a state of things +quite amusing in its impracticability. I assure you it never does.’ + +The Dowager here made a smiling obeisance, rather to the room than to +any one in it, and therewith took a final farewell of Papa and Mama +Meagles. Clennam stepped forward to hand her to the Pill-Box which was +at the service of all the Pills in Hampton Court Palace; and she got +into that vehicle with distinguished serenity, and was driven away. + +Thenceforth the Dowager, with a light and careless humour, often +recounted to her particular acquaintance how, after a hard trial, she +had found it impossible to know those people who belonged to Henry’s +wife, and who had made that desperate set to catch him. Whether she had +come to the conclusion beforehand, that to get rid of them would give +her favourite pretence a better air, might save her some occasional +inconvenience, and could risk no loss (the pretty creature being fast +married, and her father devoted to her), was best known to herself. +Though this history has its opinion on that point too, and decidedly in +the affirmative. + + + + +CHAPTER 9. Appearance and Disappearance + + +‘Arthur, my dear boy,’ said Mr Meagles, on the evening of the following +day, ‘Mother and I have been talking this over, and we don’t feel +comfortable in remaining as we are. That elegant connection of +ours--that dear lady who was here yesterday--’ + +‘I understand,’ said Arthur. + +‘Even that affable and condescending ornament of society,’ pursued Mr +Meagles, ‘may misrepresent us, we are afraid. We could bear a great +deal, Arthur, for her sake; but we think we would rather not bear that, +if it was all the same to her.’ + +‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Go on.’ + +‘You see,’ proceeded Mr Meagles ‘it might put us wrong with our +son-in-law, it might even put us wrong with our daughter, and it might +lead to a great deal of domestic trouble. You see, don’t you?’ + +‘Yes, indeed,’ returned Arthur, ‘there is much reason in what you say.’ +He had glanced at Mrs Meagles, who was always on the good and sensible +side; and a petition had shone out of her honest face that he would +support Mr Meagles in his present inclinings. + +‘So we are very much disposed, are Mother and I,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘to +pack up bags and baggage and go among the Allongers and Marshongers once +more. I mean, we are very much disposed to be off, strike right through +France into Italy, and see our Pet.’ + +‘And I don’t think,’ replied Arthur, touched by the motherly +anticipation in the bright face of Mrs Meagles (she must have been very +like her daughter, once), ‘that you could do better. And if you ask me +for my advice, it is that you set off to-morrow.’ + +‘Is it really, though?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Mother, this is being backed +in an idea!’ + +Mother, with a look which thanked Clennam in a manner very agreeable to +him, answered that it was indeed. + +‘The fact is, besides, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, the old cloud coming +over his face, ‘that my son-in-law is already in debt again, and that I +suppose I must clear him again. It may be as well, even on this account, +that I should step over there, and look him up in a friendly way. Then +again, here’s Mother foolishly anxious (and yet naturally too) about +Pet’s state of health, and that she should not be left to feel lonesome +at the present time. It’s undeniably a long way off, Arthur, and a +strange place for the poor love under all the circumstances. Let her be +as well cared for as any lady in that land, still it is a long way off. +just as Home is Home though it’s never so Homely, why you see,’ said Mr +Meagles, adding a new version to the proverb, ‘Rome is Rome, though it’s +never so Romely.’ + +‘All perfectly true,’ observed Arthur, ‘and all sufficient reasons for +going.’ + +‘I am glad you think so; it decides me. Mother, my dear, you may get +ready. We have lost our pleasant interpreter (she spoke three foreign +languages beautifully, Arthur; you have heard her many a time), and you +must pull me through it, Mother, as well as you can. I require a deal +of pulling through, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head, ‘a deal +of pulling through. I stick at everything beyond a noun-substantive--and +I stick at him, if he’s at all a tight one.’ + +‘Now I think of it,’ returned Clennam, ‘there’s Cavalletto. He shall +go with you, if you like. I could not afford to lose him, but you will +bring him safe back.’ + +‘Well! I am much obliged to you, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, turning it +over, ‘but I think not. No, I think I’ll be pulled through by Mother. +Cavallooro (I stick at his very name to start with, and it sounds like +the chorus to a comic song) is so necessary to you, that I don’t like +the thought of taking him away. More than that, there’s no saying when +we may come home again; and it would never do to take him away for +an indefinite time. The cottage is not what it was. It only holds two +little people less than it ever did, Pet, and her poor unfortunate maid +Tattycoram; but it seems empty now. Once out of it, there’s no knowing +when we may come back to it. No, Arthur, I’ll be pulled through by +Mother.’ + +They would do best by themselves perhaps, after all, Clennam thought; +therefore did not press his proposal. + +‘If you would come down and stay here for a change, when it wouldn’t +trouble you,’ Mr Meagles resumed, ‘I should be glad to think--and so +would Mother too, I know--that you were brightening up the old place +with a bit of life it was used to when it was full, and that the Babies +on the wall there had a kind eye upon them sometimes. You so belong to +the spot, and to them, Arthur, and we should every one of us have been +so happy if it had fallen out--but, let us see--how’s the weather for +travelling now?’ Mr Meagles broke off, cleared his throat, and got up to +look out of the window. + +They agreed that the weather was of high promise; and Clennam kept the +talk in that safe direction until it had become easy again, when he +gently diverted it to Henry Gowan and his quick sense and agreeable +qualities when he was delicately dealt with; he likewise dwelt on the +indisputable affection he entertained for his wife. Clennam did not fail +of his effect upon good Mr Meagles, whom these commendations greatly +cheered; and who took Mother to witness that the single and cordial +desire of his heart in reference to their daughter’s husband, was +harmoniously to exchange friendship for friendship, and confidence for +confidence. Within a few hours the cottage furniture began to be wrapped +up for preservation in the family absence--or, as Mr Meagles expressed +it, the house began to put its hair in papers--and within a few days +Father and Mother were gone, Mrs Tickit and Dr Buchan were posted, as of +yore, behind the parlour blind, and Arthur’s solitary feet were rustling +among the dry fallen leaves in the garden walks. + +As he had a liking for the spot, he seldom let a week pass without +paying a visit. Sometimes, he went down alone from Saturday to Monday; +sometimes his partner accompanied him; sometimes, he merely strolled for +an hour or two about the house and garden, saw that all was right, and +returned to London again. At all times, and under all circumstances, Mrs +Tickit, with her dark row of curls, and Dr Buchan, sat in the parlour +window, looking out for the family return. + +On one of his visits Mrs Tickit received him with the words, ‘I +have something to tell you, Mr Clennam, that will surprise you.’ So +surprising was the something in question, that it actually brought Mrs +Tickit out of the parlour window and produced her in the garden walk, +when Clennam went in at the gate on its being opened for him. + +‘What is it, Mrs Tickit?’ said he. + +‘Sir,’ returned that faithful housekeeper, having taken him into the +parlour and closed the door; ‘if ever I saw the led away and deluded +child in my life, I saw her identically in the dusk of yesterday +evening.’ + +‘You don’t mean Tatty--’ + +‘Coram yes I do!’ quoth Mrs Tickit, clearing the disclosure at a leap. + +‘Where?’ + +‘Mr Clennam,’ returned Mrs Tickit, ‘I was a little heavy in my eyes, +being that I was waiting longer than customary for my cup of tea which +was then preparing by Mary Jane. I was not sleeping, nor what a person +would term correctly, dozing. I was more what a person would strictly +call watching with my eyes closed.’ + +Without entering upon an inquiry into this curious abnormal condition, +Clennam said, ‘Exactly. Well?’ + +‘Well, sir,’ proceeded Mrs Tickit, ‘I was thinking of one thing and +thinking of another, just as you yourself might. Just as anybody might.’ + +‘Precisely so,’ said Clennam. ‘Well?’ + +‘And when I do think of one thing and do think of another,’ pursued +Mrs Tickit, ‘I hardly need to tell you, Mr Clennam, that I think of the +family. Because, dear me! a person’s thoughts,’ Mrs Tickit said this +with an argumentative and philosophic air, ‘however they may stray, will +go more or less on what is uppermost in their minds. They _will_ do it, +sir, and a person can’t prevent them.’ + +Arthur subscribed to this discovery with a nod. + +‘You find it so yourself, sir, I’ll be bold to say,’ said Mrs Tickit, +‘and we all find it so. It an’t our stations in life that changes us, Mr +Clennam; thoughts is free!--As I was saying, I was thinking of one thing +and thinking of another, and thinking very much of the family. Not of +the family in the present times only, but in the past times too. For +when a person does begin thinking of one thing and thinking of another +in that manner, as it’s getting dark, what I say is, that all times +seem to be present, and a person must get out of that state and consider +before they can say which is which.’ + +He nodded again; afraid to utter a word, lest it should present any new +opening to Mrs Tickit’s conversational powers. + +‘In consequence of which,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘when I quivered my eyes and +saw her actual form and figure looking in at the gate, I let them close +again without so much as starting, for that actual form and figure came +so pat to the time when it belonged to the house as much as mine or your +own, that I never thought at the moment of its having gone away. But, +sir, when I quivered my eyes again, and saw that it wasn’t there, then +it all flooded upon me with a fright, and I jumped up.’ + +‘You ran out directly?’ said Clennam. + +‘I ran out,’ assented Mrs Tickit, ‘as fast as ever my feet would carry +me; and if you’ll credit it, Mr Clennam, there wasn’t in the whole +shining Heavens, no not so much as a finger of that young woman.’ + +Passing over the absence from the firmament of this novel constellation, +Arthur inquired of Mrs Tickit if she herself went beyond the gate? + +‘Went to and fro, and high and low,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and saw no sign +of her!’ + +He then asked Mrs Tickit how long a space of time she supposed there +might have been between the two sets of ocular quiverings she had +experienced? Mrs Tickit, though minutely circumstantial in her reply, +had no settled opinion between five seconds and ten minutes. She was so +plainly at sea on this part of the case, and had so clearly been +startled out of slumber, that Clennam was much disposed to regard the +appearance as a dream. Without hurting Mrs Tickit’s feelings with that +infidel solution of her mystery, he took it away from the cottage with +him; and probably would have retained it ever afterwards if a +circumstance had not soon happened to change his opinion. + +He was passing at nightfall along the Strand, and the lamp-lighter was +going on before him, under whose hand the street-lamps, blurred by the +foggy air, burst out one after another, like so many blazing sunflowers +coming into full-blow all at once,--when a stoppage on the pavement, +caused by a train of coal-waggons toiling up from the wharves at the +river-side, brought him to a stand-still. He had been walking quickly, +and going with some current of thought, and the sudden check given to +both operations caused him to look freshly about him, as people under +such circumstances usually do. + +Immediately, he saw in advance--a few people intervening, but still +so near to him that he could have touched them by stretching out +his arm--Tattycoram and a strange man of a remarkable appearance: a +swaggering man, with a high nose, and a black moustache as false in its +colour as his eyes were false in their expression, who wore his heavy +cloak with the air of a foreigner. His dress and general appearance were +those of a man on travel, and he seemed to have very recently joined +the girl. In bending down (being much taller than she was), listening +to whatever she said to him, he looked over his shoulder with the +suspicious glance of one who was not unused to be mistrustful that his +footsteps might be dogged. It was then that Clennam saw his face; as +his eyes lowered on the people behind him in the aggregate, without +particularly resting upon Clennam’s face or any other. + +He had scarcely turned his head about again, and it was still bent down, +listening to the girl, when the stoppage ceased, and the obstructed +stream of people flowed on. Still bending his head and listening to the +girl, he went on at her side, and Clennam followed them, resolved to +play this unexpected play out, and see where they went. + +He had hardly made the determination (though he was not long about it), +when he was again as suddenly brought up as he had been by the stoppage. +They turned short into the Adelphi,--the girl evidently leading,--and +went straight on, as if they were going to the Terrace which overhangs +the river. + +There is always, to this day, a sudden pause in that place to the roar +of the great thoroughfare. The many sounds become so deadened that the +change is like putting cotton in the ears, or having the head thickly +muffled. At that time the contrast was far greater; there being no small +steam-boats on the river, no landing places but slippery wooden stairs +and foot-causeways, no railroad on the opposite bank, no hanging bridge +or fish-market near at hand, no traffic on the nearest bridge of stone, +nothing moving on the stream but watermen’s wherries and coal-lighters. +Long and broad black tiers of the latter, moored fast in the mud as if +they were never to move again, made the shore funereal and silent after +dark; and kept what little water-movement there was, far out towards +mid-stream. At any hour later than sunset, and not least at that hour +when most of the people who have anything to eat at home are going home +to eat it, and when most of those who have nothing have hardly yet slunk +out to beg or steal, it was a deserted place and looked on a deserted +scene. + +Such was the hour when Clennam stopped at the corner, observing the girl +and the strange man as they went down the street. The man’s footsteps +were so noisy on the echoing stones that he was unwilling to add the +sound of his own. But when they had passed the turning and were in the +darkness of the dark corner leading to the terrace, he made after them +with such indifferent appearance of being a casual passenger on his way, +as he could assume. + +When he rounded the dark corner, they were walking along the terrace +towards a figure which was coming towards them. If he had seen it by +itself, under such conditions of gas-lamp, mist, and distance, he might +not have known it at first sight, but with the figure of the girl to +prompt him, he at once recognised Miss Wade. + +He stopped at the corner, seeming to look back expectantly up the street +as if he had made an appointment with some one to meet him there; but he +kept a careful eye on the three. When they came together, the man took +off his hat, and made Miss Wade a bow. The girl appeared to say a few +words as though she presented him, or accounted for his being late, or +early, or what not; and then fell a pace or so behind, by herself. Miss +Wade and the man then began to walk up and down; the man having the +appearance of being extremely courteous and complimentary in manner; +Miss Wade having the appearance of being extremely haughty. + +When they came down to the corner and turned, she was saying, ‘If I +pinch myself for it, sir, that is my business. Confine yourself to +yours, and ask me no question.’ + +‘By Heaven, ma’am!’ he replied, making her another bow. ‘It was my +profound respect for the strength of your character, and my admiration +of your beauty.’ + +‘I want neither the one nor the other from any one,’ said she, ‘and +certainly not from you of all creatures. Go on with your report.’ + +‘Am I pardoned?’ he asked, with an air of half abashed gallantry. + +‘You are paid,’ she said, ‘and that is all you want.’ + +Whether the girl hung behind because she was not to hear the business, +or as already knowing enough about it, Clennam could not determine. They +turned and she turned. She looked away at the river, as she walked +with her hands folded before her; and that was all he could make of +her without showing his face. There happened, by good fortune, to be a +lounger really waiting for some one; and he sometimes looked over the +railing at the water, and sometimes came to the dark corner and looked +up the street, rendering Arthur less conspicuous. + +When Miss Wade and the man came back again, she was saying, ‘You must +wait until to-morrow.’ + +‘A thousand pardons?’ he returned. ‘My faith! Then it’s not convenient +to-night?’ + +‘No. I tell you I must get it before I can give it to you.’ + +She stopped in the roadway, as if to put an end to the conference. He of +course stopped too. And the girl stopped. + +‘It’s a little inconvenient,’ said the man. ‘A little. But, Holy Blue! +that’s nothing in such a service. I am without money to-night, by +chance. I have a good banker in this city, but I would not wish to draw +upon the house until the time when I shall draw for a round sum.’ + +‘Harriet,’ said Miss Wade, ‘arrange with him--this gentleman here--for +sending him some money to-morrow.’ She said it with a slur of the word +gentleman which was more contemptuous than any emphasis, and walked +slowly on. + +The man bent his head again, and the girl spoke to him as they both +followed her. Clennam ventured to look at the girl as they moved away. +He could note that her rich black eyes were fastened upon the man with a +scrutinising expression, and that she kept at a little distance from +him, as they walked side by side to the further end of the terrace. + +A loud and altered clank upon the pavement warned him, before he could +discern what was passing there, that the man was coming back alone. +Clennam lounged into the road, towards the railing; and the man passed +at a quick swing, with the end of his cloak thrown over his shoulder, +singing a scrap of a French song. + +The whole vista had no one in it now but himself. The lounger had +lounged out of view, and Miss Wade and Tattycoram were gone. More than +ever bent on seeing what became of them, and on having some information +to give his good friend, Mr Meagles, he went out at the further end of +the terrace, looking cautiously about him. He rightly judged that, at +first at all events, they would go in a contrary direction from their +late companion. He soon saw them in a neighbouring bye-street, which was +not a thoroughfare, evidently allowing time for the man to get well +out of their way. They walked leisurely arm-in-arm down one side of the +street, and returned on the opposite side. When they came back to the +street-corner, they changed their pace for the pace of people with an +object and a distance before them, and walked steadily away. Clennam, no +less steadily, kept them in sight. + +They crossed the Strand, and passed through Covent Garden (under the +windows of his old lodging where dear Little Dorrit had come that +night), and slanted away north-east, until they passed the great +building whence Tattycoram derived her name, and turned into the Gray’s +Inn Road. Clennam was quite at home here, in right of Flora, not to +mention the Patriarch and Pancks, and kept them in view with ease. He +was beginning to wonder where they might be going next, when that wonder +was lost in the greater wonder with which he saw them turn into the +Patriarchal street. That wonder was in its turn swallowed up on the +greater wonder with which he saw them stop at the Patriarchal door. A +low double knock at the bright brass knocker, a gleam of light into the +road from the opened door, a brief pause for inquiry and answer and the +door was shut, and they were housed. + +After looking at the surrounding objects for assurance that he was +not in an odd dream, and after pacing a little while before the house, +Arthur knocked at the door. It was opened by the usual maid-servant, +and she showed him up at once, with her usual alacrity, to Flora’s +sitting-room. + +There was no one with Flora but Mr F.’s Aunt, which respectable +gentlewoman, basking in a balmy atmosphere of tea and toast, was +ensconced in an easy-chair by the fireside, with a little table at her +elbow, and a clean white handkerchief spread over her lap on which +two pieces of toast at that moment awaited consumption. Bending over +a steaming vessel of tea, and looking through the steam, and breathing +forth the steam, like a malignant Chinese enchantress engaged in the +performance of unholy rites, Mr F.’s Aunt put down her great teacup and +exclaimed, ‘Drat him, if he an’t come back again!’ + +It would seem from the foregoing exclamation that this uncompromising +relative of the lamented Mr F., measuring time by the acuteness of her +sensations and not by the clock, supposed Clennam to have lately gone +away; whereas at least a quarter of a year had elapsed since he had had +the temerity to present himself before her. + +‘My goodness Arthur!’ cried Flora, rising to give him a cordial +reception, ‘Doyce and Clennam what a start and a surprise for though not +far from the machinery and foundry business and surely might be taken +sometimes if at no other time about mid-day when a glass of sherry and a +humble sandwich of whatever cold meat in the larder might not come amiss +nor taste the worse for being friendly for you know you buy it somewhere +and wherever bought a profit must be made or they would never keep the +place it stands to reason without a motive still never seen and learnt +now not to be expected, for as Mr F. himself said if seeing is believing +not seeing is believing too and when you don’t see you may fully believe +you’re not remembered not that I expect you Arthur Doyce and Clennam to +remember me why should I for the days are gone but bring another teacup +here directly and tell her fresh toast and pray sit near the fire.’ + +Arthur was in the greatest anxiety to explain the object of his +visit; but was put off for the moment, in spite of himself, by what he +understood of the reproachful purport of these words, and by the genuine +pleasure she testified in seeing him. + +‘And now pray tell me something all you know,’ said Flora, drawing her +chair near to his, ‘about the good dear quiet little thing and all the +changes of her fortunes carriage people now no doubt and horses without +number most romantic, a coat of arms of course and wild beasts on their +hind legs showing it as if it was a copy they had done with mouths from +ear to ear good gracious, and has she her health which is the first +consideration after all for what is wealth without it Mr F. himself so +often saying when his twinges came that sixpence a day and find yourself +and no gout so much preferable, not that he could have lived on anything +like it being the last man or that the previous little thing though far +too familiar an expression now had any tendency of that sort much too +slight and small but looked so fragile bless her?’ + +Mr F.’s Aunt, who had eaten a piece of toast down to the crust, here +solemnly handed the crust to Flora, who ate it for her as a matter of +business. Mr F.’s Aunt then moistened her ten fingers in slow succession +at her lips, and wiped them in exactly the same order on the white +handkerchief; then took the other piece of toast, and fell to work +upon it. While pursuing this routine, she looked at Clennam with an +expression of such intense severity that he felt obliged to look at her +in return, against his personal inclinations. + +‘She is in Italy, with all her family, Flora,’ he said, when the dreaded +lady was occupied again. + +‘In Italy is she really?’ said Flora, ‘with the grapes growing +everywhere and lava necklaces and bracelets too that land of poetry with +burning mountains picturesque beyond belief though if the organ-boys +come away from the neighbourhood not to be scorched nobody can wonder +being so young and bringing their white mice with them most humane, and +is she really in that favoured land with nothing but blue about her and +dying gladiators and Belvederes though Mr F. himself did not believe +for his objection when in spirits was that the images could not be true +there being no medium between expensive quantities of linen badly got +up and all in creases and none whatever, which certainly does not seem +probable though perhaps in consequence of the extremes of rich and poor +which may account for it.’ + +Arthur tried to edge a word in, but Flora hurried on again. + +‘Venice Preserved too,’ said she, ‘I think you have been there is it +well or ill preserved for people differ so and Maccaroni if they really +eat it like the conjurors why not cut it shorter, you are acquainted +Arthur--dear Doyce and Clennam at least not dear and most assuredly +not Doyce for I have not the pleasure but pray excuse me--acquainted I +believe with Mantua what _has_ it got to do with Mantua-making for I never +have been able to conceive?’ + +‘I believe there is no connection, Flora, between the two,’ Arthur was +beginning, when she caught him up again. + +‘Upon your word no isn’t there I never did but that’s like me I run away +with an idea and having none to spare I keep it, alas there was a time +dear Arthur that is to say decidedly not dear nor Arthur neither but you +understand me when one bright idea gilded the what’s-his-name horizon of +et cetera but it is darkly clouded now and all is over.’ + +Arthur’s increasing wish to speak of something very different was by +this time so plainly written on his face, that Flora stopped in a tender +look, and asked him what it was? + +‘I have the greatest desire, Flora, to speak to some one who is now in +this house--with Mr Casby no doubt. Some one whom I saw come in, and +who, in a misguided and deplorable way, has deserted the house of a +friend of mine.’ + +‘Papa sees so many and such odd people,’ said Flora, rising, ‘that I +shouldn’t venture to go down for any one but you Arthur but for you I +would willingly go down in a diving-bell much more a dining-room and +will come back directly if you’ll mind and at the same time not mind Mr +F.’s Aunt while I’m gone.’ + +With those words and a parting glance, Flora bustled out, leaving +Clennam under dreadful apprehension of this terrible charge. + +The first variation which manifested itself in Mr F.’s Aunt’s demeanour +when she had finished her piece of toast, was a loud and prolonged +sniff. Finding it impossible to avoid construing this demonstration +into a defiance of himself, its gloomy significance being unmistakable, +Clennam looked plaintively at the excellent though prejudiced lady +from whom it emanated, in the hope that she might be disarmed by a meek +submission. + +‘None of your eyes at me,’ said Mr F.’s Aunt, shivering with hostility. +‘Take that.’ + +‘That’ was the crust of the piece of toast. Clennam accepted the boon +with a look of gratitude, and held it in his hand under the pressure +of a little embarrassment, which was not relieved when Mr F.’s Aunt, +elevating her voice into a cry of considerable power, exclaimed, ‘He +has a proud stomach, this chap! He’s too proud a chap to eat it!’ and, +coming out of her chair, shook her venerable fist so very close to his +nose as to tickle the surface. But for the timely return of Flora, to +find him in this difficult situation, further consequences might +have ensued. Flora, without the least discomposure or surprise, but +congratulating the old lady in an approving manner on being ‘very lively +to-night’, handed her back to her chair. + +‘He has a proud stomach, this chap,’ said Mr F.’s relation, on being +reseated. ‘Give him a meal of chaff!’ + +‘Oh! I don’t think he would like that, aunt,’ returned Flora. + +‘Give him a meal of chaff, I tell you,’ said Mr F.’s Aunt, glaring round +Flora on her enemy. ‘It’s the only thing for a proud stomach. Let him +eat up every morsel. Drat him, give him a meal of chaff!’ + +Under a general pretence of helping him to this refreshment, Flora got +him out on the staircase; Mr F.’s Aunt even then constantly reiterating, +with inexpressible bitterness, that he was ‘a chap,’ and had a ‘proud +stomach,’ and over and over again insisting on that equine provision +being made for him which she had already so strongly prescribed. + +‘Such an inconvenient staircase and so many corner-stairs Arthur,’ +whispered Flora, ‘would you object to putting your arm round me under my +pelerine?’ + +With a sense of going down-stairs in a highly-ridiculous manner, Clennam +descended in the required attitude, and only released his fair burden at +the dining-room door; indeed, even there she was rather difficult to +be got rid of, remaining in his embrace to murmur, ‘Arthur, for mercy’s +sake, don’t breathe it to papa!’ + +She accompanied Arthur into the room, where the Patriarch sat alone, +with his list shoes on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had +never left off. The youthful Patriarch, aged ten, looked out of his +picture-frame above him with no calmer air than he. Both smooth heads +were alike beaming, blundering, and bumpy. + +‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, sir, I hope you +are well. Please to sit down, please to sit down.’ + +‘I had hoped, sir,’ said Clennam, doing so, and looking round with a +face of blank disappointment, ‘not to find you alone.’ + +‘Ah, indeed?’ said the Patriarch, sweetly. ‘Ah, indeed?’ + +‘I told you so you know papa,’ cried Flora. + +‘Ah, to be sure!’ returned the Patriarch. ‘Yes, just so. Ah, to be +sure!’ + +‘Pray, sir,’ demanded Clennam, anxiously, ‘is Miss Wade gone?’ + +‘Miss--? Oh, you call her Wade,’ returned Mr Casby. ‘Highly proper.’ + +Arthur quickly returned, ‘What do you call her?’ + +‘Wade,’ said Mr Casby. ‘Oh, always Wade.’ + +After looking at the philanthropic visage and the long silky white hair +for a few seconds, during which Mr Casby twirled his thumbs, and smiled +at the fire as if he were benevolently wishing it to burn him that he +might forgive it, Arthur began: + +‘I beg your pardon, Mr Casby--’ + +‘Not so, not so,’ said the Patriarch, ‘not so.’ + +‘--But, Miss Wade had an attendant with her--a young woman brought up +by friends of mine, over whom her influence is not considered very +salutary, and to whom I should be glad to have the opportunity of giving +the assurance that she has not yet forfeited the interest of those +protectors.’ + +‘Really, really?’ returned the Patriarch. + +‘Will you therefore be so good as to give me the address of Miss Wade?’ + +‘Dear, dear, dear!’ said the Patriarch, ‘how very unfortunate! If you +had only sent in to me when they were here! I observed the young woman, +Mr Clennam. A fine full-coloured young woman, Mr Clennam, with very dark +hair and very dark eyes. If I mistake not, if I mistake not?’ + +Arthur assented, and said once more with new expression, ‘If you would +be so good as to give me the address.’ + +‘Dear, dear, dear!’ exclaimed the Patriarch in sweet regret. ‘Tut, tut, +tut! what a pity, what a pity! I have no address, sir. Miss Wade mostly +lives abroad, Mr Clennam. She has done so for some years, and she is (if +I may say so of a fellow-creature and a lady) fitful and uncertain to a +fault, Mr Clennam. I may not see her again for a long, long time. I may +never see her again. What a pity, what a pity!’ + +Clennam saw now, that he had as much hope of getting assistance out of +the Portrait as out of the Patriarch; but he said nevertheless: + +‘Mr Casby, could you, for the satisfaction of the friends I have +mentioned, and under any obligation of secrecy that you may consider it +your duty to impose, give me any information at all touching Miss Wade? +I have seen her abroad, and I have seen her at home, but I know nothing +of her. Could you give me any account of her whatever?’ + +‘None,’ returned the Patriarch, shaking his big head with his utmost +benevolence. ‘None at all. Dear, dear, dear! What a real pity that +she stayed so short a time, and you delayed! As confidential agency +business, agency business, I have occasionally paid this lady money; but +what satisfaction is it to you, sir, to know that?’ + +‘Truly, none at all,’ said Clennam. + +‘Truly,’ assented the Patriarch, with a shining face as he +philanthropically smiled at the fire, ‘none at all, sir. You hit the +wise answer, Mr Clennam. Truly, none at all, sir.’ + +His turning of his smooth thumbs over one another as he sat there, was +so typical to Clennam of the way in which he would make the subject +revolve if it were pursued, never showing any new part of it nor +allowing it to make the smallest advance, that it did much to help to +convince him of his labour having been in vain. He might have taken any +time to think about it, for Mr Casby, well accustomed to get on anywhere +by leaving everything to his bumps and his white hair, knew his strength +to lie in silence. So there Casby sat, twirling and twirling, and making +his polished head and forehead look largely benevolent in every knob. + +With this spectacle before him, Arthur had risen to go, when from the +inner Dock where the good ship Pancks was hove down when out in no +cruising ground, the noise was heard of that steamer labouring towards +him. It struck Arthur that the noise began demonstratively far off, as +though Mr Pancks sought to impress on any one who might happen to think +about it, that he was working on from out of hearing. + +Mr Pancks and he shook hands, and the former brought his employer a +letter or two to sign. Mr Pancks in shaking hands merely scratched his +eyebrow with his left forefinger and snorted once, but Clennam, who +understood him better now than of old, comprehended that he had almost +done for the evening and wished to say a word to him outside. Therefore, +when he had taken his leave of Mr Casby, and (which was a more difficult +process) of Flora, he sauntered in the neighbourhood on Mr Pancks’s line +of road. + +He had waited but a short time when Mr Pancks appeared. Mr Pancks +shaking hands again with another expressive snort, and taking off his +hat to put his hair up, Arthur thought he received his cue to speak to +him as one who knew pretty well what had just now passed. Therefore he +said, without any preface: + +‘I suppose they were really gone, Pancks?’ + +‘Yes,’ replied Pancks. ‘They were really gone.’ + +‘Does he know where to find that lady?’ + +‘Can’t say. I should think so.’ + +Mr Pancks did not? No, Mr Pancks did not. Did Mr Pancks know anything +about her? + +‘I expect,’ rejoined that worthy, ‘I know as much about her as she knows +about herself. She is somebody’s child--anybody’s, nobody’s. Put her in +a room in London here with any six people old enough to be her parents, +and her parents may be there for anything she knows. They may be in any +house she sees, they may be in any churchyard she passes, she may run +against ‘em in any street, she may make chance acquaintance of ‘em at +any time; and never know it. She knows nothing about ‘em. She knows +nothing about any relative whatever. Never did. Never will.’ + +‘Mr Casby could enlighten her, perhaps?’ + +‘May be,’ said Pancks. ‘I expect so, but don’t know. He has long had +money (not overmuch as I make out) in trust to dole out to her when +she can’t do without it. Sometimes she’s proud and won’t touch it for +a length of time; sometimes she’s so poor that she must have it. She +writhes under her life. A woman more angry, passionate, reckless, +and revengeful never lived. She came for money to-night. Said she had +peculiar occasion for it.’ + +‘I think,’ observed Clennam musing, ‘I by chance know what occasion--I +mean into whose pocket the money is to go.’ + +‘Indeed?’ said Pancks. ‘If it’s a compact, I recommend that party to be +exact in it. I wouldn’t trust myself to that woman, young and handsome +as she is, if I had wronged her; no, not for twice my proprietor’s +money! Unless,’ Pancks added as a saving clause, ‘I had a lingering +illness on me, and wanted to get it over.’ + +Arthur, hurriedly reviewing his own observation of her, found it to +tally pretty nearly with Mr Pancks’s view. + +‘The wonder is to me,’ pursued Pancks, ‘that she has never done for my +proprietor, as the only person connected with her story she can lay +hold of. Mentioning that, I may tell you, between ourselves, that I am +sometimes tempted to do for him myself.’ + +Arthur started and said, ‘Dear me, Pancks, don’t say that!’ + +‘Understand me,’ said Pancks, extending five cropped coaly finger-nails +on Arthur’s arm; ‘I don’t mean, cut his throat. But by all that’s +precious, if he goes too far, I’ll cut his hair!’ + +Having exhibited himself in the new light of enunciating this tremendous +threat, Mr Pancks, with a countenance of grave import, snorted several +times and steamed away. + + + + +CHAPTER 10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken + + +The shady waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office, where he passed a +good deal of time in company with various troublesome Convicts who were +under sentence to be broken alive on that wheel, had afforded Arthur +Clennam ample leisure, in three or four successive days, to exhaust the +subject of his late glimpse of Miss Wade and Tattycoram. He had been +able to make no more of it and no less of it, and in this unsatisfactory +condition he was fain to leave it. + +During this space he had not been to his mother’s dismal old house. +One of his customary evenings for repairing thither now coming round, +he left his dwelling and his partner at nearly nine o’clock, and slowly +walked in the direction of that grim home of his youth. + +It always affected his imagination as wrathful, mysterious, and sad; +and his imagination was sufficiently impressible to see the whole +neighbourhood under some tinge of its dark shadow. As he went along, +upon a dreary night, the dim streets by which he went, seemed all +depositories of oppressive secrets. The deserted counting-houses, with +their secrets of books and papers locked up in chests and safes; the +banking-houses, with their secrets of strong rooms and wells, the +keys of which were in a very few secret pockets and a very few secret +breasts; the secrets of all the dispersed grinders in the vast mill, +among whom there were doubtless plunderers, forgers, and trust-betrayers +of many sorts, whom the light of any day that dawned might reveal; he +could have fancied that these things, in hiding, imparted a heaviness +to the air. The shadow thickening and thickening as he approached its +source, he thought of the secrets of the lonely church-vaults, where the +people who had hoarded and secreted in iron coffers were in their turn +similarly hoarded, not yet at rest from doing harm; and then of the +secrets of the river, as it rolled its turbid tide between two frowning +wildernesses of secrets, extending, thick and dense, for many miles, and +warding off the free air and the free country swept by winds and wings +of birds. + +The shadow still darkening as he drew near the house, the melancholy +room which his father had once occupied, haunted by the appealing face +he had himself seen fade away with him when there was no other watcher +by the bed, arose before his mind. Its close air was secret. The gloom, +and must, and dust of the whole tenement, were secret. At the heart of +it his mother presided, inflexible of face, indomitable of will, firmly +holding all the secrets of her own and his father’s life, and austerely +opposing herself, front to front, to the great final secret of all life. + +He had turned into the narrow and steep street from which the court of +enclosure wherein the house stood opened, when another footstep turned +into it behind him, and so close upon his own that he was jostled to the +wall. As his mind was teeming with these thoughts, the encounter took +him altogether unprepared, so that the other passenger had had time to +say, boisterously, ‘Pardon! Not my fault!’ and to pass on before the +instant had elapsed which was requisite to his recovery of the realities +about him. + +When that moment had flashed away, he saw that the man striding on +before him was the man who had been so much in his mind during the last +few days. It was no casual resemblance, helped out by the force of +the impression the man made upon him. It was the man; the man he had +followed in company with the girl, and whom he had overheard talking to +Miss Wade. + +The street was a sharp descent and was crooked too, and the man (who +although not drunk had the air of being flushed with some strong drink) +went down it so fast that Clennam lost him as he looked at him. With +no defined intention of following him, but with an impulse to keep the +figure in view a little longer, Clennam quickened his pace to pass the +twist in the street which hid him from his sight. On turning it, he saw +the man no more. + +Standing now, close to the gateway of his mother’s house, he looked +down the street: but it was empty. There was no projecting shadow large +enough to obscure the man; there was no turning near that he could have +taken; nor had there been any audible sound of the opening and closing +of a door. Nevertheless, he concluded that the man must have had a key +in his hand, and must have opened one of the many house-doors and gone +in. + +Ruminating on this strange chance and strange glimpse, he turned into +the court-yard. As he looked, by mere habit, towards the feebly lighted +windows of his mother’s room, his eyes encountered the figure he had +just lost, standing against the iron railings of the little waste +enclosure looking up at those windows and laughing to himself. Some of +the many vagrant cats who were always prowling about there by night, +and who had taken fright at him, appeared to have stopped when he had +stopped, and were looking at him with eyes by no means unlike his own +from tops of walls and porches, and other safe points of pause. He had +only halted for a moment to entertain himself thus; he immediately went +forward, throwing the end of his cloak off his shoulder as he went, +ascended the unevenly sunken steps, and knocked a sounding knock at the +door. + +Clennam’s surprise was not so absorbing but that he took his resolution +without any incertitude. He went up to the door too, and ascended the +steps too. His friend looked at him with a braggart air, and sang to +himself. + + + ‘Who passes by this road so late? + Compagnon de la Majolaine; + Who passes by this road so late? + Always gay!’ + + +After which he knocked again. + +‘You are impatient, sir,’ said Arthur. + +‘I am, sir. Death of my life, sir,’ returned the stranger, ‘it’s my +character to be impatient!’ + +The sound of Mistress Affery cautiously chaining the door before she +opened it, caused them both to look that way. Affery opened it a very +little, with a flaring candle in her hands and asked who was that, at +that time of night, with that knock! ‘Why, Arthur!’ she added with +astonishment, seeing him first. ‘Not you sure? Ah, Lord save us! No,’ +she cried out, seeing the other. ‘Him again!’ + +‘It’s true! Him again, dear Mrs Flintwinch,’ cried the stranger. ‘Open +the door, and let me take my dear friend Jeremiah to my arms! Open the +door, and let me hasten myself to embrace my Flintwinch!’ + +‘He’s not at home,’ cried Affery. + +‘Fetch him!’ cried the stranger. ‘Fetch my Flintwinch! Tell him that it +is his old Blandois, who comes from arriving in England; tell him that +it is his little boy who is here, his cabbage, his well-beloved! Open +the door, beautiful Mrs Flintwinch, and in the meantime let me to pass +upstairs, to present my compliments--homage of Blandois--to my lady! My +lady lives always? It is well. Open then!’ + +To Arthur’s increased surprise, Mistress Affery, stretching her eyes +wide at himself, as if in warning that this was not a gentleman for +him to interfere with, drew back the chain, and opened the door. The +stranger, without ceremony, walked into the hall, leaving Arthur to +follow him. + +‘Despatch then! Achieve then! Bring my Flintwinch! Announce me to my +lady!’ cried the stranger, clanking about the stone floor. + +‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ said Arthur aloud and sternly, as he surveyed +him from head to foot with indignation; ‘who is this gentleman?’ + +‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ the stranger repeated in his turn, ‘who--ha, ha, +ha!--who is this gentleman?’ + +The voice of Mrs Clennam opportunely called from her chamber above, +‘Affery, let them both come up. Arthur, come straight to me!’ + +‘Arthur?’ exclaimed Blandois, taking off his hat at arm’s length, +and bringing his heels together from a great stride in making him a +flourishing bow. ‘The son of my lady? I am the all-devoted of the son of +my lady!’ + +Arthur looked at him again in no more flattering manner than before, +and, turning on his heel without acknowledgment, went up-stairs. The +visitor followed him up-stairs. Mistress Affery took the key from behind +the door, and deftly slipped out to fetch her lord. + +A bystander, informed of the previous appearance of Monsieur Blandois +in that room, would have observed a difference in Mrs Clennam’s present +reception of him. Her face was not one to betray it; and her suppressed +manner, and her set voice, were equally under her control. It wholly +consisted in her never taking her eyes off his face from the moment of +his entrance, and in her twice or thrice, when he was becoming noisy, +swaying herself a very little forward in the chair in which she sat +upright, with her hands immovable upon its elbows; as if she gave him +the assurance that he should be presently heard at any length he would. +Arthur did not fail to observe this; though the difference between the +present occasion and the former was not within his power of observation. + +‘Madame,’ said Blandois, ‘do me the honour to present me to Monsieur, +your son. It appears to me, madame, that Monsieur, your son, is disposed +to complain of me. He is not polite.’ + +‘Sir,’ said Arthur, striking in expeditiously, ‘whoever you are, and +however you come to be here, if I were the master of this house I would +lose no time in placing you on the outside of it.’ + +‘But you are not,’ said his mother, without looking at him. +‘Unfortunately for the gratification of your unreasonable temper, you +are not the master, Arthur.’ + +‘I make no claim to be, mother. If I object to this person’s manner of +conducting himself here, and object to it so much, that if I had any +authority here I certainly would not suffer him to remain a minute, I +object on your account.’ + +‘In the case of objection being necessary,’ she returned, ‘I could +object for myself. And of course I should.’ + +The subject of their dispute, who had seated himself, laughed aloud, and +rapped his legs with his hand. + +‘You have no right,’ said Mrs Clennam, always intent on Blandois, +however directly she addressed her son, ‘to speak to the prejudice of +any gentleman (least of all a gentleman from another country), because +he does not conform to your standard, or square his behaviour by your +rules. It is possible that the gentleman may, on similar grounds, object +to you.’ + +‘I hope so,’ returned Arthur. + +‘The gentleman,’ pursued Mrs Clennam, ‘on a former occasion brought +a letter of recommendation to us from highly esteemed and responsible +correspondents. I am perfectly unacquainted with the gentleman’s object +in coming here at present. I am entirely ignorant of it, and cannot be +supposed likely to be able to form the remotest guess at its nature;’ +her habitual frown became stronger, as she very slowly and weightily +emphasised those words; ‘but, when the gentleman proceeds to explain +his object, as I shall beg him to have the goodness to do to myself and +Flintwinch, when Flintwinch returns, it will prove, no doubt, to be one +more or less in the usual way of our business, which it will be both our +business and our pleasure to advance. It can be nothing else.’ + +‘We shall see, madame!’ said the man of business. + +‘We shall see,’ she assented. ‘The gentleman is acquainted with +Flintwinch; and when the gentleman was in London last, I remember +to have heard that he and Flintwinch had some entertainment or +good-fellowship together. I am not in the way of knowing much that +passes outside this room, and the jingle of little worldly things beyond +it does not much interest me; but I remember to have heard that.’ + +‘Right, madame. It is true.’ He laughed again, and whistled the burden +of the tune he had sung at the door. + +‘Therefore, Arthur,’ said his mother, ‘the gentleman comes here as an +acquaintance, and no stranger; and it is much to be regretted that your +unreasonable temper should have found offence in him. I regret it. I say +so to the gentleman. You will not say so, I know; therefore I say it for +myself and Flintwinch, since with us two the gentleman’s business lies.’ + +The key of the door below was now heard in the lock, and the door was +heard to open and close. In due sequence Mr Flintwinch appeared; on +whose entrance the visitor rose from his chair, laughing loud, and +folded him in a close embrace. + +‘How goes it, my cherished friend!’ said he. ‘How goes the world, my +Flintwinch? Rose-coloured? So much the better, so much the better! Ah, +but you look charming! Ah, but you look young and fresh as the flowers +of Spring! Ah, good little boy! Brave child, brave child!’ + +While heaping these compliments on Mr Flintwinch, he rolled him about +with a hand on each of his shoulders, until the staggerings of that +gentleman, who under the circumstances was dryer and more twisted than +ever, were like those of a teetotum nearly spent. + +‘I had a presentiment, last time, that we should be better and more +intimately acquainted. Is it coming on you, Flintwinch? Is it yet coming +on?’ + +‘Why, no, sir,’ retorted Mr Flintwinch. ‘Not unusually. Hadn’t you +better be seated? You have been calling for some more of that port, sir, +I guess?’ + +‘Ah, Little joker! Little pig!’ cried the visitor. ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ And +throwing Mr Flintwinch away, as a closing piece of raillery, he sat down +again. + +The amazement, suspicion, resentment, and shame, with which Arthur +looked on at all this, struck him dumb. Mr Flintwinch, who had spun +backward some two or three yards under the impetus last given to him, +brought himself up with a face completely unchanged in its stolidity +except as it was affected by shortness of breath, and looked hard at +Arthur. Not a whit less reticent and wooden was Mr Flintwinch outwardly, +than in the usual course of things: the only perceptible difference in +him being that the knot of cravat which was generally under his ear, +had worked round to the back of his head: where it formed an ornamental +appendage not unlike a bagwig, and gave him something of a courtly +appearance. + +As Mrs Clennam never removed her eyes from Blandois (on whom they had +some effect, as a steady look has on a lower sort of dog), so Jeremiah +never removed his from Arthur. It was as if they had tacitly agreed to +take their different provinces. Thus, in the ensuing silence, Jeremiah +stood scraping his chin and looking at Arthur as though he were trying +to screw his thoughts out of him with an instrument. + +After a little, the visitor, as if he felt the silence irksome, rose, +and impatiently put himself with his back to the sacred fire which had +burned through so many years. Thereupon Mrs Clennam said, moving one of +her hands for the first time, and moving it very slightly with an action +of dismissal: + +‘Please to leave us to our business, Arthur.’ + +‘Mother, I do so with reluctance.’ + +‘Never mind with what,’ she returned, ‘or with what not. Please to leave +us. Come back at any other time when you may consider it a duty to bury +half an hour wearily here. Good night.’ + +She held up her muffled fingers that he might touch them with his, +according to their usual custom, and he stood over her wheeled chair to +touch her face with his lips. He thought, then, that her cheek was +more strained than usual, and that it was colder. As he followed the +direction of her eyes, in rising again, towards Mr Flintwinch’s good +friend, Mr Blandois, Mr Blandois snapped his finger and thumb with one +loud contemptuous snap. + +‘I leave your--your business acquaintance in my mother’s room, Mr +Flintwinch,’ said Clennam, ‘with a great deal of surprise and a great +deal of unwillingness.’ + +The person referred to snapped his finger and thumb again. + +‘Good night, mother.’ + +‘Good night.’ + +‘I had a friend once, my good comrade Flintwinch,’ said Blandois, +standing astride before the fire, and so evidently saying it to arrest +Clennam’s retreating steps, that he lingered near the door; ‘I had a +friend once, who had heard so much of the dark side of this city and +its ways, that he wouldn’t have confided himself alone by night with two +people who had an interest in getting him under the ground--my faith! +not even in a respectable house like this--unless he was bodily too +strong for them. Bah! What a poltroon, my Flintwinch! Eh?’ + +‘A cur, sir.’ + +‘Agreed! A cur. But he wouldn’t have done it, my Flintwinch, unless he +had known them to have the will to silence him, without the power. He +wouldn’t have drunk from a glass of water under such circumstances--not +even in a respectable house like this, my Flintwinch--unless he had seen +one of them drink first, and swallow too!’ + +Disdaining to speak, and indeed not very well able, for he was +half-choking, Clennam only glanced at the visitor as he passed out. +The visitor saluted him with another parting snap, and his nose came +down over his moustache and his moustache went up under his nose, in an +ominous and ugly smile. + +‘For Heaven’s sake, Affery,’ whispered Clennam, as she opened the door +for him in the dark hall, and he groped his way to the sight of the +night-sky, ‘what is going on here?’ + +Her own appearance was sufficiently ghastly, standing in the dark +with her apron thrown over her head, and speaking behind it in a low, +deadened voice. + +‘Don’t ask me anything, Arthur. I’ve been in a dream for ever so long. +Go away!’ + +He went out, and she shut the door upon him. He looked up at the windows +of his mother’s room, and the dim light, deadened by the yellow blinds, +seemed to say a response after Affery, and to mutter, ‘Don’t ask me +anything. Go away!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit + + +Dear Mr Clennam, + +As I said in my last that it was best for nobody to write to me, and +as my sending you another little letter can therefore give you no other +trouble than the trouble of reading it (perhaps you may not find leisure +for even that, though I hope you will some day), I am now going to +devote an hour to writing to you again. This time, I write from Rome. + +We left Venice before Mr and Mrs Gowan did, but they were not so long +upon the road as we were, and did not travel by the same way, and so +when we arrived we found them in a lodging here, in a place called the +Via Gregoriana. I dare say you know it. + +Now I am going to tell you all I can about them, because I know that is +what you most want to hear. Theirs is not a very comfortable lodging, +but perhaps I thought it less so when I first saw it than you would have +done, because you have been in many different countries and have +seen many different customs. Of course it is a far, far better +place--millions of times--than any I have ever been used to until +lately; and I fancy I don’t look at it with my own eyes, but with hers. +For it would be easy to see that she has always been brought up in a +tender and happy home, even if she had not told me so with great love +for it. + +Well, it is a rather bare lodging up a rather dark common staircase, and +it is nearly all a large dull room, where Mr Gowan paints. The windows +are blocked up where any one could look out, and the walls have been +all drawn over with chalk and charcoal by others who have lived there +before--oh,--I should think, for years! There is a curtain more +dust-coloured than red, which divides it, and the part behind the +curtain makes the private sitting-room. When I first saw her there she +was alone, and her work had fallen out of her hand, and she was looking +up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows. Pray do not be +uneasy when I tell you, but it was not quite so airy, nor so bright, nor +so cheerful, nor so happy and youthful altogether as I should have liked +it to be. + +On account of Mr Gowan’s painting Papa’s picture (which I am not quite +convinced I should have known from the likeness if I had not seen him +doing it), I have had more opportunities of being with her since then +than I might have had without this fortunate chance. She is very much +alone. Very much alone indeed. + +Shall I tell you about the second time I saw her? I went one day, when +it happened that I could run round by myself, at four or five o’clock +in the afternoon. She was then dining alone, and her solitary dinner had +been brought in from somewhere, over a kind of brazier with a fire in +it, and she had no company or prospect of company, that I could see, +but the old man who had brought it. He was telling her a long story (of +robbers outside the walls being taken up by a stone statue of a Saint), +to entertain her--as he said to me when I came out, ‘because he had a +daughter of his own, though she was not so pretty.’ + +I ought now to mention Mr Gowan, before I say what little more I have to +say about her. He must admire her beauty, and he must be proud of her, +for everybody praises it, and he must be fond of her, and I do not +doubt that he is--but in his way. You know his way, and if it appears +as careless and discontented in your eyes as it does in mine, I am not +wrong in thinking that it might be better suited to her. If it does not +seem so to you, I am quite sure I am wholly mistaken; for your unchanged +poor child confides in your knowledge and goodness more than she could +ever tell you if she was to try. But don’t be frightened, I am not going +to try. + +Owing (as I think, if you think so too) to Mr Gowan’s unsettled +and dissatisfied way, he applies himself to his profession very little. +He does nothing steadily or patiently; but equally takes things up and +throws them down, and does them, or leaves them undone, without caring +about them. When I have heard him talking to Papa during the sittings +for the picture, I have sat wondering whether it could be that he has no +belief in anybody else, because he has no belief in himself. Is it so? +I wonder what you will say when you come to this! I know how you will +look, and I can almost hear the voice in which you would tell me on the +Iron Bridge. + +Mr Gowan goes out a good deal among what is considered the best company +here--though he does not look as if he enjoyed it or liked it when he is +with it--and she sometimes accompanies him, but lately she has gone out +very little. I think I have noticed that they have an inconsistent way +of speaking about her, as if she had made some great self-interested +success in marrying Mr Gowan, though, at the same time, the very same +people, would not have dreamed of taking him for themselves or their +daughters. Then he goes into the country besides, to think about making +sketches; and in all places where there are visitors, he has a large +acquaintance and is very well known. Besides all this, he has a friend +who is much in his society both at home and away from home, though he +treats this friend very coolly and is very uncertain in his behaviour +to him. I am quite sure (because she has told me so), that she does not +like this friend. He is so revolting to me, too, that his being away +from here, at present, is quite a relief to my mind. How much more to +hers! + +But what I particularly want you to know, and why I have resolved +to tell you so much while I am afraid it may make you a little +uncomfortable without occasion, is this. She is so true and so devoted, +and knows so completely that all her love and duty are his for ever, +that you may be certain she will love him, admire him, praise him, and +conceal all his faults, until she dies. I believe she conceals them, and +always will conceal them, even from herself. She has given him a heart +that can never be taken back; and however much he may try it, he will +never wear out its affection. You know the truth of this, as you know +everything, far far better than I; but I cannot help telling you what a +nature she shows, and that you can never think too well of her. + +I have not yet called her by her name in this letter, but we are such +friends now that I do so when we are quietly together, and she speaks to +me by my name--I mean, not my Christian name, but the name you gave me. +When she began to call me Amy, I told her my short story, and that you +had always called me Little Dorrit. I told her that the name was much +dearer to me than any other, and so she calls me Little Dorrit too. + +Perhaps you have not heard from her father or mother yet, and may not +know that she has a baby son. He was born only two days ago, and just a +week after they came. It has made them very happy. However, I must tell +you, as I am to tell you all, that I fancy they are under a constraint +with Mr Gowan, and that they feel as if his mocking way with them was +sometimes a slight given to their love for her. It was but yesterday, +when I was there, that I saw Mr Meagles change colour, and get up and +go out, as if he was afraid that he might say so, unless he prevented +himself by that means. Yet I am sure they are both so considerate, +good-humoured, and reasonable, that he might spare them. It is hard in +him not to think of them a little more. + +I stopped at the last full stop to read all this over. It looked at +first as if I was taking on myself to understand and explain so much, +that I was half inclined not to send it. But when I thought it over a +little, I felt more hopeful for your knowing at once that I had only +been watchful for you, and had only noticed what I think I have noticed, +because I was quickened by your interest in it. Indeed, you may be sure +that is the truth. + +And now I have done with the subject in the present letter, and have +little left to say. + +We are all quite well, and Fanny improves every day. You can hardly +think how kind she is to me, and what pains she takes with me. She has +a lover, who has followed her, first all the way from Switzerland, and +then all the way from Venice, and who has just confided to me that he +means to follow her everywhere. I was much confused by his speaking to +me about it, but he would. I did not know what to say, but at last I +told him that I thought he had better not. For Fanny (but I did not tell +him this) is much too spirited and clever to suit him. Still, he said he +would, all the same. I have no lover, of course. + +If you should ever get so far as this in this long letter, you will +perhaps say, Surely Little Dorrit will not leave off without telling me +something about her travels, and surely it is time she did. I think it +is indeed, but I don’t know what to tell you. Since we left Venice we +have been in a great many wonderful places, Genoa and Florence among +them, and have seen so many wonderful sights, that I am almost giddy +when I think what a crowd they make. But you can tell me so much more +about them than I can tell you, that why should I tire you with my +accounts and descriptions? + +Dear Mr Clennam, as I had the courage to tell you what the familiar +difficulties in my travelling mind were before, I will not be a coward +now. One of my frequent thoughts is this:--Old as these cities are, +their age itself is hardly so curious, to my reflections, as that they +should have been in their places all through those days when I did not +even know of the existence of more than two or three of them, and when +I scarcely knew of anything outside our old walls. There is something +melancholy in it, and I don’t know why. When we went to see the famous +leaning tower at Pisa, it was a bright sunny day, and it and the +buildings near it looked so old, and the earth and the sky looked so +young, and its shadow on the ground was so soft and retired! I could not +at first think how beautiful it was, or how curious, but I thought, ‘O +how many times when the shadow of the wall was falling on our room, and +when that weary tread of feet was going up and down the yard--O how many +times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is to-day!’ It quite +overpowered me. My heart was so full that tears burst out of my eyes, +though I did what I could to restrain them. And I have the same feeling +often--often. + +Do you know that since the change in our fortunes, though I appear to +myself to have dreamed more than before, I have always dreamed of myself +as very young indeed! I am not very old, you may say. No, but that is +not what I mean. I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning +to do needlework. I have often dreamed of myself as back there, seeing +faces in the yard little known, and which I should have thought I had +quite forgotten; but, as often as not, I have been abroad here--in +Switzerland, or France, or Italy--somewhere where we have been--yet +always as that little child. I have dreamed of going down to Mrs +General, with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember +myself. I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner +at Venice when we have had a large company, in the mourning for my poor +mother which I wore when I was eight years old, and wore long after it +was threadbare and would mend no more. It has been a great distress to +me to think how irreconcilable the company would consider it with my +father’s wealth, and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny +and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret. But +I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it; and at the +self-same moment I have dreamed that I have sat with the heart-ache at +table, calculating the expenses of the dinner, and quite distracting +myself with thinking how they were ever to be made good. I have never +dreamed of the change in our fortunes itself; I have never dreamed of +your coming back with me that memorable morning to break it; I have +never even dreamed of you. + +Dear Mr Clennam, it is possible that I have thought of you--and +others--so much by day, that I have no thoughts left to wander round +you by night. For I must now confess to you that I suffer from +home-sickness--that I long so ardently and earnestly for home, as +sometimes, when no one sees me, to pine for it. I cannot bear to turn my +face further away from it. My heart is a little lightened when we turn +towards it, even for a few miles, and with the knowledge that we are +soon to turn away again. So dearly do I love the scene of my poverty and +your kindness. O so dearly, O so dearly! + +Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We are all +fond of the life here (except me), and there are no plans for our +return. My dear father talks of a visit to London late in this next +spring, on some affairs connected with the property, but I have no hope +that he will bring me with him. + +I have tried to get on a little better under Mrs General’s instruction, +and I hope I am not quite so dull as I used to be. I have begun to speak +and understand, almost easily, the hard languages I told you about. I +did not remember, at the moment when I wrote last, that you knew them +both; but I remembered it afterwards, and it helped me on. God bless +you, dear Mr Clennam. Do not forget + + Your ever grateful and affectionate + + LITTLE DORRIT. + +P.S.--Particularly remember that Minnie Gowan deserves the best +remembrance in which you can hold her. You cannot think too generously +or too highly of her. I forgot Mr Pancks last time. Please, if you +should see him, give him your Little Dorrit’s kind regard. He was very +good to Little D. + + + + +CHAPTER 12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden + + +The famous name of Merdle became, every day, more famous in the land. +Nobody knew that the Merdle of such high renown had ever done any good +to any one, alive or dead, or to any earthly thing; nobody knew that he +had any capacity or utterance of any sort in him, which had ever thrown, +for any creature, the feeblest farthing-candle ray of light on any path +of duty or diversion, pain or pleasure, toil or rest, fact or fancy, +among the multiplicity of paths in the labyrinth trodden by the sons +of Adam; nobody had the smallest reason for supposing the clay of which +this object of worship was made, to be other than the commonest clay, +with as clogged a wick smouldering inside of it as ever kept an image of +humanity from tumbling to pieces. All people knew (or thought they knew) +that he had made himself immensely rich; and, for that reason alone, +prostrated themselves before him, more degradedly and less excusably +than the darkest savage creeps out of his hole in the ground to +propitiate, in some log or reptile, the Deity of his benighted soul. + +Nay, the high priests of this worship had the man before them as +a protest against their meanness. The multitude worshipped on +trust--though always distinctly knowing why--but the officiators at the +altar had the man habitually in their view. They sat at his feasts, and +he sat at theirs. There was a spectre always attendant on him, saying to +these high priests, ‘Are such the signs you trust, and love to honour; +this head, these eyes, this mode of speech, the tone and manner of this +man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office, and the rulers of +men. When half-a-dozen of you fall out by the ears, it seems that mother +earth can give birth to no other rulers. Does your qualification lie in +the superior knowledge of men which accepts, courts, and puffs this man? +Or, if you are competent to judge aright the signs I never fail to +show you when he appears among you, is your superior honesty your +qualification?’ Two rather ugly questions these, always going about +town with Mr Merdle; and there was a tacit agreement that they must be +stifled. + +In Mrs Merdle’s absence abroad, Mr Merdle still kept the great house +open for the passage through it of a stream Of visitors. A few of these +took affable possession of the establishment. Three or four ladies of +distinction and liveliness used to say to one another, ‘Let us dine at +our dear Merdle’s next Thursday. Whom shall we have?’ Our dear Merdle +would then receive his instructions; and would sit heavily among the +company at table and wander lumpishly about his drawing-rooms +afterwards, only remarkable for appearing to have nothing to do with the +entertainment beyond being in its way. + +The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man’s life, relaxed +nothing of his severity. He looked on at these dinners when the bosom +was not there, as he looked on at other dinners when the bosom was +there; and his eye was a basilisk to Mr Merdle. He was a hard man, and +would never bate an ounce of plate or a bottle of wine. He would not +allow a dinner to be given, unless it was up to his mark. He set forth +the table for his own dignity. If the guests chose to partake of what +was served, he saw no objection; but it was served for the maintenance +of his rank. As he stood by the sideboard he seemed to announce, ‘I have +accepted office to look at this which is now before me, and to look at +nothing less than this.’ If he missed the presiding bosom, it was as a +part of his own state of which he was, from unavoidable circumstances, +temporarily deprived, just as he might have missed a centre-piece, or a +choice wine-cooler, which had been sent to the Banker’s. + +Mr Merdle issued invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was to +be there, Mr Tite Barnacle was to be there, the pleasant young Barnacle +was to be there; and the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who went +about the provinces when the House was up, warbling the praises of their +Chief, were to be represented there. It was understood to be a great +occasion. Mr Merdle was going to take up the Barnacles. Some delicate +little negotiations had occurred between him and the noble Decimus--the +young Barnacle of engaging manners acting as negotiator--and Mr Merdle +had decided to cast the weight of his great probity and great riches +into the Barnacle scale. Jobbery was suspected by the malicious; perhaps +because it was indisputable that if the adherence of the immortal Enemy +of Mankind could have been secured by a job, the Barnacles would have +jobbed him--for the good of the country, for the good of the country. + +Mrs Merdle had written to this magnificent spouse of hers, whom it was +heresy to regard as anything less than all the British Merchants since +the days of Whittington rolled into one, and gilded three feet deep all +over--had written to this spouse of hers, several letters from Rome, in +quick succession, urging upon him with importunity that now or never was +the time to provide for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs Merdle had shown him that +the case of Edmund was urgent, and that infinite advantages might result +from his having some good thing directly. In the grammar of Mrs +Merdle’s verbs on this momentous subject, there was only one mood, the +Imperative; and that Mood had only one Tense, the Present. Mrs Merdle’s +verbs were so pressingly presented to Mr Merdle to conjugate, that his +sluggish blood and his long coat-cuffs became quite agitated. + +In which state of agitation, Mr Merdle, evasively rolling his eyes +round the Chief Butler’s shoes without raising them to the index of that +stupendous creature’s thoughts, had signified to him his intention of +giving a special dinner: not a very large dinner, but a very special +dinner. The Chief Butler had signified, in return, that he had no +objection to look on at the most expensive thing in that way that could +be done; and the day of the dinner was now come. + +Mr Merdle stood in one of his drawing-rooms, with his back to the fire, +waiting for the arrival of his important guests. He seldom or never took +the liberty of standing with his back to the fire unless he was quite +alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he could not have done such +a deed. He would have clasped himself by the wrists in that constabulary +manner of his, and have paced up and down the hearthrug, or gone +creeping about among the rich objects of furniture, if his oppressive +retainer had appeared in the room at that very moment. The sly shadows +which seemed to dart out of hiding when the fire rose, and to dart back +into it when the fire fell, were sufficient witnesses of his making +himself so easy. They were even more than sufficient, if his +uncomfortable glances at them might be taken to mean anything. + +Mr Merdle’s right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the +evening paper was full of Mr Merdle. His wonderful enterprise, his +wonderful wealth, his wonderful Bank, were the fattening food of the +evening paper that night. The wonderful Bank, of which he was the chief +projector, establisher, and manager, was the latest of the many Merdle +wonders. So modest was Mr Merdle withal, in the midst of these splendid +achievements, that he looked far more like a man in possession of his +house under a distraint, than a commercial Colossus bestriding his own +hearthrug, while the little ships were sailing into dinner. + +Behold the vessels coming into port! The engaging young Barnacle was the +first arrival; but Bar overtook him on the staircase. Bar, strengthened +as usual with his double eye-glass and his little jury droop, was +overjoyed to see the engaging young Barnacle; and opined that we were +going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to take a special +argument? + +‘Indeed,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand; +‘how so?’ + +‘Nay,’ smiled Bar. ‘If you don’t know, how can I know? You are in the +innermost sanctuary of the temple; I am one of the admiring concourse on +the plain without.’ + +Bar could be light in hand, or heavy in hand, according to the customer +he had to deal with. With Ferdinand Barnacle he was gossamer. Bar was +likewise always modest and self-depreciatory--in his way. Bar was a man +of great variety; but one leading thread ran through the woof of all his +patterns. Every man with whom he had to do was in his eyes a jury-man; +and he must get that jury-man over, if he could. + +‘Our illustrious host and friend,’ said Bar; ‘our shining mercantile +star;--going into politics?’ + +‘Going? He has been in Parliament some time, you know,’ returned the +engaging young Barnacle. + +‘True,’ said Bar, with his light-comedy laugh for special jury-men, +which was a very different thing from his low-comedy laugh for comic +tradesmen on common juries: ‘he has been in Parliament for some time. +Yet hitherto our star has been a vacillating and wavering star? Humph?’ + +An average witness would have been seduced by the Humph? into an +affirmative answer, But Ferdinand Barnacle looked knowingly at Bar as he +strolled up-stairs, and gave him no answer at all. + +‘Just so, just so,’ said Bar, nodding his head, for he was not to be put +off in that way, ‘and therefore I spoke of our sitting _in Banco_ to take +a special argument--meaning this to be a high and solemn occasion, when, +as Captain Macheath says, “the judges are met: a terrible show!” We +lawyers are sufficiently liberal, you see, to quote the Captain, though +the Captain is severe upon us. Nevertheless, I think I could put in +evidence an admission of the Captain’s,’ said Bar, with a little jocose +roll of his head; for, in his legal current of speech, he always assumed +the air of rallying himself with the best grace in the world; ‘an +admission of the Captain’s that Law, in the gross, is at least +intended to be impartial. For what says the Captain, if I quote +him correctly--and if not,’ with a light-comedy touch of his double +eye-glass on his companion’s shoulder, ‘my learned friend will set me +right: + + + “Since laws were made for every degree, + To curb vice in others as well as in me, + I wonder we ha’n’t better company + Upon Tyburn Tree!”’ + + +These words brought them to the drawing-room, where Mr Merdle stood +before the fire. So immensely astounded was Mr Merdle by the entrance +of Bar with such a reference in his mouth, that Bar explained himself +to have been quoting Gay. ‘Assuredly not one of our Westminster Hall +authorities,’ said he, ‘but still no despicable one to a man possessing +the largely-practical Mr Merdle’s knowledge of the world.’ + +Mr Merdle looked as if he thought he would say something, but +subsequently looked as if he thought he wouldn’t. The interval afforded +time for Bishop to be announced. + +Bishop came in with meekness, and yet with a strong and rapid step as if +he wanted to get his seven-league dress-shoes on, and go round the world +to see that everybody was in a satisfactory state. Bishop had no idea +that there was anything significant in the occasion. That was the most +remarkable trait in his demeanour. He was crisp, fresh, cheerful, +affable, bland; but so surprisingly innocent. + +Bar sidled up to prefer his politest inquiries in reference to the +health of Mrs Bishop. Mrs Bishop had been a little unfortunate in the +article of taking cold at a Confirmation, but otherwise was well. Young +Mr Bishop was also well. He was down, with his young wife and little +family, at his Cure of Souls. + +The representatives of the Barnacle Chorus dropped in next, and Mr +Merdle’s physician dropped in next. Bar, who had a bit of one eye and a +bit of his double eye-glass for every one who came in at the door, no +matter with whom he was conversing or what he was talking about, got +among them all by some skilful means, without being seen to get at them, +and touched each individual gentleman of the jury on his own individual +favourite spot. With some of the Chorus, he laughed about the sleepy +member who had gone out into the lobby the other night, and voted the +wrong way: with others, he deplored that innovating spirit in the time +which could not even be prevented from taking an unnatural interest in +the public service and the public money: with the physician he had a +word to say about the general health; he had also a little information +to ask him for, concerning a professional man of unquestioned erudition +and polished manners--but those credentials in their highest development +he believed were the possession of other professors of the healing art +(jury droop)--whom he had happened to have in the witness-box the day +before yesterday, and from whom he had elicited in cross-examination +that he claimed to be one of the exponents of this new mode of treatment +which appeared to Bar to--eh?--well, Bar thought so; Bar had thought, +and hoped, Physician would tell him so. Without presuming to decide +where doctors disagreed, it did appear to Bar, viewing it as a question +of common sense and not of so-called legal penetration, that this new +system was--might be, in the presence of so great an authority--say, +Humbug? Ah! Fortified by such encouragement, he could venture to say +Humbug; and now Bar’s mind was relieved. + +Mr Tite Barnacle, who, like Dr Johnson’s celebrated acquaintance, had +only one idea in his head and that was a wrong one, had appeared by this +time. This eminent gentleman and Mr Merdle, seated diverse ways and with +ruminating aspects on a yellow ottoman in the light of the fire, +holding no verbal communication with each other, bore a strong general +resemblance to the two cows in the Cuyp picture over against them. + +But now, Lord Decimus arrived. The Chief Butler, who up to this time +had limited himself to a branch of his usual function by looking at the +company as they entered (and that, with more of defiance than favour), +put himself so far out of his way as to come up-stairs with him and +announce him. Lord Decimus being an overpowering peer, a bashful young +member of the Lower House who was the last fish but one caught by the +Barnacles, and who had been invited on this occasion to commemorate his +capture, shut his eyes when his Lordship came in. + +Lord Decimus, nevertheless, was glad to see the Member. He was also +glad to see Mr Merdle, glad to see Bishop, glad to see Bar, glad to see +Physician, glad to see Tite Barnacle, glad to see Chorus, glad to +see Ferdinand his private secretary. Lord Decimus, though one of the +greatest of the earth, was not remarkable for ingratiatory manners, and +Ferdinand had coached him up to the point of noticing all the fellows +he might find there, and saying he was glad to see them. When he had +achieved this rush of vivacity and condescension, his Lordship composed +himself into the picture after Cuyp, and made a third cow in the group. + +Bar, who felt that he had got all the rest of the jury and must now lay +hold of the Foreman, soon came sidling up, double eye-glass in hand. Bar +tendered the weather, as a subject neatly aloof from official reserve, +for the Foreman’s consideration. Bar said that he was told (as everybody +always is told, though who tells them, and why, will ever remain a +mystery), that there was to be no wall-fruit this year. Lord Decimus +had not heard anything amiss of his peaches, but rather believed, if his +people were correct, he was to have no apples. No apples? Bar was lost +in astonishment and concern. It would have been all one to him, in +reality, if there had not been a pippin on the surface of the earth, but +his show of interest in this apple question was positively painful. +Now, to what, Lord Decimus--for we troublesome lawyers loved to gather +information, and could never tell how useful it might prove to us--to +what, Lord Decimus, was this to be attributed? Lord Decimus could not +undertake to propound any theory about it. This might have stopped +another man; but Bar, sticking to him fresh as ever, said, ‘As to pears, +now?’ + +Long after Bar got made Attorney-General, this was told of him as +a master-stroke. Lord Decimus had a reminiscence about a pear-tree +formerly growing in a garden near the back of his dame’s house at Eton, +upon which pear-tree the only joke of his life perennially bloomed. It +was a joke of a compact and portable nature, turning on the difference +between Eton pears and Parliamentary pairs; but it was a joke, a refined +relish of which would seem to have appeared to Lord Decimus impossible +to be had without a thorough and intimate acquaintance with the tree. +Therefore, the story at first had no idea of such a tree, sir, then +gradually found it in winter, carried it through the changing season, +saw it bud, saw it blossom, saw it bear fruit, saw the fruit ripen; in +short, cultivated the tree in that diligent and minute manner before it +got out of the bed-room window to steal the fruit, that many thanks had +been offered up by belated listeners for the trees having been planted +and grafted prior to Lord Decimus’s time. Bar’s interest in apples was +so overtopped by the wrapt suspense in which he pursued the changes +of these pears, from the moment when Lord Decimus solemnly opened with +‘Your mentioning pears recalls to my remembrance a pear-tree,’ down to +the rich conclusion, ‘And so we pass, through the various changes +of life, from Eton pears to Parliamentary pairs,’ that he had to go +down-stairs with Lord Decimus, and even then to be seated next to him +at table in order that he might hear the anecdote out. By that time, Bar +felt that he had secured the Foreman, and might go to dinner with a good +appetite. + +It was a dinner to provoke an appetite, though he had not had one. The +rarest dishes, sumptuously cooked and sumptuously served; the choicest +fruits; the most exquisite wines; marvels of workmanship in gold and +silver, china and glass; innumerable things delicious to the senses of +taste, smell, and sight, were insinuated into its composition. O, what +a wonderful man this Merdle, what a great man, what a master man, how +blessedly and enviably endowed--in one word, what a rich man! + +He took his usual poor eighteenpennyworth of food in his usual +indigestive way, and had as little to say for himself as ever a +wonderful man had. Fortunately Lord Decimus was one of those sublimities +who have no occasion to be talked to, for they can be at any time +sufficiently occupied with the contemplation of their own greatness. +This enabled the bashful young Member to keep his eyes open long enough +at a time to see his dinner. But, whenever Lord Decimus spoke, he shut +them again. + +The agreeable young Barnacle, and Bar, were the talkers of the party. +Bishop would have been exceedingly agreeable also, but that his +innocence stood in his way. He was so soon left behind. When there was +any little hint of anything being in the wind, he got lost directly. +Worldly affairs were too much for him; he couldn’t make them out at all. + +This was observable when Bar said, incidentally, that he was happy to +have heard that we were soon to have the advantage of enlisting on +the good side, the sound and plain sagacity--not demonstrative or +ostentatious, but thoroughly sound and practical--of our friend Mr +Sparkler. + +Ferdinand Barnacle laughed, and said oh yes, he believed so. A vote was +a vote, and always acceptable. + +Bar was sorry to miss our good friend Mr Sparkler to-day, Mr Merdle. + +‘He is away with Mrs Merdle,’ returned that gentleman, slowly coming +out of a long abstraction, in the course of which he had been fitting a +tablespoon up his sleeve. ‘It is not indispensable for him to be on the +spot.’ + +‘The magic name of Merdle,’ said Bar, with the jury droop, ‘no doubt +will suffice for all.’ + +‘Why--yes--I believe so,’ assented Mr Merdle, putting the spoon aside, +and clumsily hiding each of his hands in the coat-cuff of the other +hand. ‘I believe the people in my interest down there will not make any +difficulty.’ + +‘Model people!’ said Bar. + +‘I am glad you approve of them,’ said Mr Merdle. + +‘And the people of those other two places, now,’ pursued Bar, with a +bright twinkle in his keen eye, as it slightly turned in the direction +of his magnificent neighbour; ‘we lawyers are always curious, always +inquisitive, always picking up odds and ends for our patchwork minds, +since there is no knowing when and where they may fit into some +corner;--the people of those other two places now? Do they yield so +laudably to the vast and cumulative influence of such enterprise and +such renown; do those little rills become absorbed so quietly +and easily, and, as it were by the influence of natural laws, so +beautifully, in the swoop of the majestic stream as it flows upon its +wondrous way enriching the surrounding lands; that their course is +perfectly to be calculated, and distinctly to be predicated?’ + +Mr Merdle, a little troubled by Bar’s eloquence, looked fitfully about +the nearest salt-cellar for some moments, and then said hesitating: + +‘They are perfectly aware, sir, of their duty to Society. They will +return anybody I send to them for that purpose.’ + +‘Cheering to know,’ said Bar. ‘Cheering to know.’ + +The three places in question were three little rotten holes in this +Island, containing three little ignorant, drunken, guzzling, dirty, +out-of-the-way constituencies, that had reeled into Mr Merdle’s pocket. +Ferdinand Barnacle laughed in his easy way, and airily said they were +a nice set of fellows. Bishop, mentally perambulating among paths of +peace, was altogether swallowed up in absence of mind. + +‘Pray,’ asked Lord Decimus, casting his eyes around the table, ‘what +is this story I have heard of a gentleman long confined in a debtors’ +prison proving to be of a wealthy family, and having come into the +inheritance of a large sum of money? I have met with a variety of +allusions to it. Do you know anything of it, Ferdinand?’ + +‘I only know this much,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that he has given the +Department with which I have the honour to be associated;’ this +sparkling young Barnacle threw off the phrase sportively, as who should +say, We know all about these forms of speech, but we must keep it up, +we must keep the game alive; ‘no end of trouble, and has put us into +innumerable fixes.’ + +‘Fixes?’ repeated Lord Decimus, with a majestic pausing and pondering +on the word that made the bashful Member shut his eyes quite tight. +‘Fixes?’ + +‘A very perplexing business indeed,’ observed Mr Tite Barnacle, with an +air of grave resentment. + +‘What,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘was the character of his business; what was +the nature of these--a--Fixes, Ferdinand?’ + +‘Oh, it’s a good story, as a story,’ returned that gentleman; ‘as good +a thing of its kind as need be. This Mr Dorrit (his name is Dorrit) had +incurred a responsibility to us, ages before the fairy came out of +the Bank and gave him his fortune, under a bond he had signed for the +performance of a contract which was not at all performed. He was a +partner in a house in some large way--spirits, or buttons, or wine, or +blacking, or oatmeal, or woollen, or pork, or hooks and eyes, or iron, +or treacle, or shoes, or something or other that was wanted for troops, +or seamen, or somebody--and the house burst, and we being among +the creditors, detainees were lodged on the part of the Crown in a +scientific manner, and all the rest of it. When the fairy had appeared +and he wanted to pay us off, Egad we had got into such an exemplary +state of checking and counter-checking, signing and counter-signing, +that it was six months before we knew how to take the money, or how to +give a receipt for it. It was a triumph of public business,’ said this +handsome young Barnacle, laughing heartily, ‘You never saw such a lot of +forms in your life. “Why,” the attorney said to me one day, “if I wanted +this office to give me two or three thousand pounds instead of take it, +I couldn’t have more trouble about it.” “You are right, old fellow,” + I told him, “and in future you’ll know that we have something to do +here.”’ The pleasant young Barnacle finished by once more laughing +heartily. He was a very easy, pleasant fellow indeed, and his manners +were exceedingly winning. + +Mr Tite Barnacle’s view of the business was of a less airy character. He +took it ill that Mr Dorrit had troubled the Department by wanting to +pay the money, and considered it a grossly informal thing to do after so +many years. But Mr Tite Barnacle was a buttoned-up man, and consequently +a weighty one. All buttoned-up men are weighty. All buttoned-up men are +believed in. Whether or no the reserved and never-exercised power of +unbuttoning, fascinates mankind; whether or no wisdom is supposed to +condense and augment when buttoned up, and to evaporate when unbuttoned; +it is certain that the man to whom importance is accorded is the +buttoned-up man. Mr Tite Barnacle never would have passed for half his +current value, unless his coat had been always buttoned-up to his white +cravat. + +‘May I ask,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘if Mr Darrit--or Dorrit--has any +family?’ + +Nobody else replying, the host said, ‘He has two daughters, my lord.’ + +‘Oh! you are acquainted with him?’ asked Lord Decimus. + +‘Mrs Merdle is. Mr Sparkler is, too. In fact,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I rather +believe that one of the young ladies has made an impression on Edmund +Sparkler. He is susceptible, and--I--think--the conquest--’ Here Mr +Merdle stopped, and looked at the table-cloth, as he usually did when he +found himself observed or listened to. + +Bar was uncommonly pleased to find that the Merdle family, and this +family, had already been brought into contact. He submitted, in a low +voice across the table to Bishop, that it was a kind of analogical +illustration of those physical laws, in virtue of which Like flies to +Like. He regarded this power of attraction in wealth to draw wealth +to it, as something remarkably interesting and curious--something +indefinably allied to the loadstone and gravitation. Bishop, who +had ambled back to earth again when the present theme was broached, +acquiesced. He said it was indeed highly important to Society that one +in the trying situation of unexpectedly finding himself invested with a +power for good or for evil in Society, should become, as it were, merged +in the superior power of a more legitimate and more gigantic growth, the +influence of which (as in the case of our friend at whose board we sat) +was habitually exercised in harmony with the best interests of Society. +Thus, instead of two rival and contending flames, a larger and a lesser, +each burning with a lurid and uncertain glare, we had a blended and a +softened light whose genial ray diffused an equable warmth throughout +the land. Bishop seemed to like his own way of putting the case very +much, and rather dwelt upon it; Bar, meanwhile (not to throw away a +jury-man), making a show of sitting at his feet and feeding on his +precepts. + +The dinner and dessert being three hours long, the bashful Member cooled +in the shadow of Lord Decimus faster than he warmed with food and drink, +and had but a chilly time of it. Lord Decimus, like a tall tower in a +flat country, seemed to project himself across the table-cloth, hide the +light from the honourable Member, cool the honourable Member’s marrow, +and give him a woeful idea of distance. When he asked this unfortunate +traveller to take wine, he encompassed his faltering steps with the +gloomiest of shades; and when he said, ‘Your health sir!’ all around him +was barrenness and desolation. + +At length Lord Decimus, with a coffee-cup in his hand, began to hover +about among the pictures, and to cause an interesting speculation to +arise in all minds as to the probabilities of his ceasing to hover, and +enabling the smaller birds to flutter up-stairs; which could not be +done until he had urged his noble pinions in that direction. After some +delay, and several stretches of his wings which came to nothing, he +soared to the drawing-rooms. + +And here a difficulty arose, which always does arise when two people +are specially brought together at a dinner to confer with one another. +Everybody (except Bishop, who had no suspicion of it) knew perfectly +well that this dinner had been eaten and drunk, specifically to the end +that Lord Decimus and Mr Merdle should have five minutes’ conversation +together. The opportunity so elaborately prepared was now arrived, and +it seemed from that moment that no mere human ingenuity could so much as +get the two chieftains into the same room. Mr Merdle and his noble guest +persisted in prowling about at opposite ends of the perspective. It was +in vain for the engaging Ferdinand to bring Lord Decimus to look at the +bronze horses near Mr Merdle. Then Mr Merdle evaded, and wandered away. +It was in vain for him to bring Mr Merdle to Lord Decimus to tell him +the history of the unique Dresden vases. Then Lord Decimus evaded and +wandered away, while he was getting his man up to the mark. + +‘Did you ever see such a thing as this?’ said Ferdinand to Bar when he +had been baffled twenty times. + +‘Often,’ returned Bar. + +‘Unless I butt one of them into an appointed corner, and you butt the +other,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it will not come off after all.’ + +‘Very good,’ said Bar. ‘I’ll butt Merdle, if you like; but not my lord.’ + +Ferdinand laughed, in the midst of his vexation. ‘Confound them both!’ +said he, looking at his watch. ‘I want to get away. Why the deuce can’t +they come together! They both know what they want and mean to do. Look +at them!’ + +They were still looming at opposite ends of the perspective, each with +an absurd pretence of not having the other on his mind, which could not +have been more transparently ridiculous though his real mind had been +chalked on his back. Bishop, who had just now made a third with Bar and +Ferdinand, but whose innocence had again cut him out of the subject and +washed him in sweet oil, was seen to approach Lord Decimus and glide +into conversation. + +‘I must get Merdle’s doctor to catch and secure him, I suppose,’ said +Ferdinand; ‘and then I must lay hold of my illustrious kinsman, and +decoy him if I can--drag him if I can’t--to the conference.’ + +‘Since you do me the honour,’ said Bar, with his slyest smile, to ask +for my poor aid, it shall be yours with the greatest pleasure. I don’t +think this is to be done by one man. But if you will undertake to pen +my lord into that furthest drawing-room where he is now so profoundly +engaged, I will undertake to bring our dear Merdle into the presence, +without the possibility of getting away.’ + +‘Done!’ said Ferdinand. ‘Done!’ said Bar. + +Bar was a sight wondrous to behold, and full of matter, when, jauntily +waving his double eye-glass by its ribbon, and jauntily drooping to an +Universe of Jurymen, he, in the most accidental manner ever seen, +found himself at Mr Merdle’s shoulder, and embraced that opportunity of +mentioning a little point to him, on which he particularly wished to +be guided by the light of his practical knowledge. (Here he took Mr +Merdle’s arm and walked him gently away.) A banker, whom we would call +A. B., advanced a considerable sum of money, which we would call fifteen +thousand pounds, to a client or customer of his, whom he would call P. +Q. (Here, as they were getting towards Lord Decimus, he held Mr Merdle +tight.) As a security for the repayment of this advance to P. Q. whom +we would call a widow lady, there were placed in A. B.’s hands the +title-deeds of a freehold estate, which we would call Blinkiter Doddles. +Now, the point was this. A limited right of felling and lopping in +the woods of Blinkiter Doddles, lay in the son of P. Q. then past his +majority, and whom we would call X. Y.--but really this was too bad! In +the presence of Lord Decimus, to detain the host with chopping our dry +chaff of law, was really too bad! Another time! Bar was truly repentant, +and would not say another syllable. Would Bishop favour him with +half-a-dozen words? (He had now set Mr Merdle down on a couch, side by +side with Lord Decimus, and to it they must go, now or never.) + +And now the rest of the company, highly excited and interested, always +excepting Bishop, who had not the slightest idea that anything was going +on, formed in one group round the fire in the next drawing-room, and +pretended to be chatting easily on the infinite variety of small topics, +while everybody’s thoughts and eyes were secretly straying towards the +secluded pair. The Chorus were excessively nervous, perhaps as labouring +under the dreadful apprehension that some good thing was going to +be diverted from them! Bishop alone talked steadily and evenly. He +conversed with the great Physician on that relaxation of the throat with +which young curates were too frequently afflicted, and on the means +of lessening the great prevalence of that disorder in the church. +Physician, as a general rule, was of opinion that the best way to avoid +it was to know how to read, before you made a profession of reading. +Bishop said dubiously, did he really think so? And Physician said, +decidedly, yes he did. + +Ferdinand, meanwhile, was the only one of the party who skirmished on +the outside of the circle; he kept about mid-way between it and the +two, as if some sort of surgical operation were being performed by Lord +Decimus on Mr Merdle, or by Mr Merdle on Lord Decimus, and his services +might at any moment be required as Dresser. In fact, within a quarter +of an hour Lord Decimus called to him ‘Ferdinand!’ and he went, and +took his place in the conference for some five minutes more. Then a +half-suppressed gasp broke out among the Chorus; for Lord Decimus rose +to take his leave. Again coached up by Ferdinand to the point of making +himself popular, he shook hands in the most brilliant manner with the +whole company, and even said to Bar, ‘I hope you were not bored by my +pears?’ To which Bar retorted, ‘Eton, my lord, or Parliamentary?’ neatly +showing that he had mastered the joke, and delicately insinuating that +he could never forget it while his life remained. + +All the grave importance that was buttoned up in Mr Tite Barnacle, took +itself away next; and Ferdinand took himself away next, to the opera. +Some of the rest lingered a little, marrying golden liqueur glasses to +Buhl tables with sticky rings; on the desperate chance of Mr Merdle’s +saying something. But Merdle, as usual, oozed sluggishly and muddily +about his drawing-room, saying never a word. + +In a day or two it was announced to all the town, that Edmund Sparkler, +Esquire, son-in-law of the eminent Mr Merdle of worldwide renown, was +made one of the Lords of the Circumlocution Office; and proclamation was +issued, to all true believers, that this admirable appointment was to +be hailed as a graceful and gracious mark of homage, rendered by the +graceful and gracious Decimus, to that commercial interest which must +ever in a great commercial country--and all the rest of it, with +blast of trumpet. So, bolstered by this mark of Government homage, the +wonderful Bank and all the other wonderful undertakings went on and went +up; and gapers came to Harley Street, Cavendish Square, only to look at +the house where the golden wonder lived. + +And when they saw the Chief Butler looking out at the hall-door in +his moments of condescension, the gapers said how rich he looked, and +wondered how much money he had in the wonderful Bank. But, if they had +known that respectable Nemesis better, they would not have wondered +about it, and might have stated the amount with the utmost precision. + + + + +CHAPTER 13. The Progress of an Epidemic + + +That it is at least as difficult to stay a moral infection as a physical +one; that such a disease will spread with the malignity and rapidity of +the Plague; that the contagion, when it has once made head, will spare +no pursuit or condition, but will lay hold on people in the soundest +health, and become developed in the most unlikely constitutions: is +a fact as firmly established by experience as that we human creatures +breathe an atmosphere. A blessing beyond appreciation would be conferred +upon mankind, if the tainted, in whose weakness or wickedness these +virulent disorders are bred, could be instantly seized and placed in +close confinement (not to say summarily smothered) before the poison is +communicable. + +As a vast fire will fill the air to a great distance with its roar, so +the sacred flame which the mighty Barnacles had fanned caused the air to +resound more and more with the name of Merdle. It was deposited on every +lip, and carried into every ear. There never was, there never had +been, there never again should be, such a man as Mr Merdle. Nobody, +as aforesaid, knew what he had done; but everybody knew him to be the +greatest that had appeared. + +Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, where there was not one unappropriated +halfpenny, as lively an interest was taken in this paragon of men as on +the Stock Exchange. Mrs Plornish, now established in the small grocery +and general trade in a snug little shop at the crack end of the Yard, +at the top of the steps, with her little old father and Maggy acting +as assistants, habitually held forth about him over the counter in +conversation with her customers. Mr Plornish, who had a small share in a +small builder’s business in the neighbourhood, said, trowel in hand, on +the tops of scaffolds and on the tiles of houses, that people did tell +him as Mr Merdle was _the_ one, mind you, to put us all to rights in +respects of that which all on us looked to, and to bring us all safe +home as much as we needed, mind you, fur toe be brought. Mr Baptist, +sole lodger of Mr and Mrs Plornish was reputed in whispers to lay by +the savings which were the result of his simple and moderate life, +for investment in one of Mr Merdle’s certain enterprises. The female +Bleeding Hearts, when they came for ounces of tea, and hundredweights of +talk, gave Mrs Plornish to understand, That how, ma’am, they had heard +from their cousin Mary Anne, which worked in the line, that his lady’s +dresses would fill three waggons. That how she was as handsome a lady, +ma’am, as lived, no matter wheres, and a busk like marble itself. That +how, according to what they was told, ma’am, it was her son by a former +husband as was took into the Government; and a General he had been, and +armies he had marched again and victory crowned, if all you heard was to +be believed. That how it was reported that Mr Merdle’s words had been, +that if they could have made it worth his while to take the whole +Government he would have took it without a profit, but that take it he +could not and stand a loss. That how it was not to be expected, ma’am, +that he should lose by it, his ways being, as you might say and utter +no falsehood, paved with gold; but that how it was much to be regretted +that something handsome hadn’t been got up to make it worth his while; +for it was such and only such that knowed the heighth to which the bread +and butchers’ meat had rose, and it was such and only such that both +could and would bring that heighth down. + +So rife and potent was the fever in Bleeding Heart Yard, that Mr +Pancks’s rent-days caused no interval in the patients. The disease took +the singular form, on those occasions, of causing the infected to find +an unfathomable excuse and consolation in allusions to the magic name. + +‘Now, then!’ Mr Pancks would say, to a defaulting lodger. ‘Pay up! +Come on!’ + +‘I haven’t got it, Mr Pancks,’ Defaulter would reply. ‘I tell you the +truth, sir, when I say I haven’t got so much as a single sixpence of it +to bless myself with.’ + +‘This won’t do, you know,’ Mr Pancks would retort. ‘You don’t expect it +_will_ do; do you?’ + +Defaulter would admit, with a low-spirited ‘No, sir,’ having no such +expectation. + +‘My proprietor isn’t going to stand this, you know,’ Mr Pancks would +proceed. ‘He don’t send me here for this. Pay up! Come!’ + +The Defaulter would make answer, ‘Ah, Mr Pancks. If I was the rich +gentleman whose name is in everybody’s mouth--if my name was Merdle, +sir--I’d soon pay up, and be glad to do it.’ + +Dialogues on the rent-question usually took place at the house-doors +or in the entries, and in the presence of several deeply interested +Bleeding Hearts. They always received a reference of this kind with a +low murmur of response, as if it were convincing; and the Defaulter, +however black and discomfited before, always cheered up a little in +making it. + +‘If I was Mr Merdle, sir, you wouldn’t have cause to complain of me +then. No, believe me!’ the Defaulter would proceed with a shake of the +head. ‘I’d pay up so quick then, Mr Pancks, that you shouldn’t have to +ask me.’ + +The response would be heard again here, implying that it was impossible +to say anything fairer, and that this was the next thing to paying the +money down. + +Mr Pancks would be now reduced to saying as he booked the case, ‘Well! +You’ll have the broker in, and be turned out; that’s what’ll happen to +you. It’s no use talking to me about Mr Merdle. You are not Mr Merdle, +any more than I am.’ + +‘No, sir,’ the Defaulter would reply. ‘I only wish you _were_ him, sir.’ + +The response would take this up quickly; replying with great feeling, +‘Only wish you _were_ him, sir.’ + +‘You’d be easier with us if you were Mr Merdle, sir,’ the Defaulter +would go on with rising spirits, ‘and it would be better for all +parties. Better for our sakes, and better for yours, too. You wouldn’t +have to worry no one, then, sir. You wouldn’t have to worry us, and you +wouldn’t have to worry yourself. You’d be easier in your own mind, sir, +and you’d leave others easier, too, you would, if you were Mr Merdle.’ + +Mr Pancks, in whom these impersonal compliments produced an irresistible +sheepishness, never rallied after such a charge. He could only bite +his nails and puff away to the next Defaulter. The responsive Bleeding +Hearts would then gather round the Defaulter whom he had just abandoned, +and the most extravagant rumours would circulate among them, to their +great comfort, touching the amount of Mr Merdle’s ready money. + +From one of the many such defeats of one of many rent-days, Mr Pancks, +having finished his day’s collection, repaired with his note-book +under his arm to Mrs Plornish’s corner. Mr Pancks’s object was not +professional, but social. He had had a trying day, and wanted a little +brightening. By this time he was on friendly terms with the Plornish +family, having often looked in upon them at similar seasons, and borne +his part in recollections of Miss Dorrit. + +Mrs Plornish’s shop-parlour had been decorated under her own eye, and +presented, on the side towards the shop, a little fiction in which Mrs +Plornish unspeakably rejoiced. This poetical heightening of the parlour +consisted in the wall being painted to represent the exterior of a +thatched cottage; the artist having introduced (in as effective a manner +as he found compatible with their highly disproportionate dimensions) +the real door and window. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were +depicted as flourishing with great luxuriance on this rustic dwelling, +while a quantity of dense smoke issuing from the chimney indicated good +cheer within, and also, perhaps, that it had not been lately swept. +A faithful dog was represented as flying at the legs of the friendly +visitor, from the threshold; and a circular pigeon-house, enveloped in a +cloud of pigeons, arose from behind the garden-paling. On the door (when +it was shut), appeared the semblance of a brass-plate, presenting +the inscription, Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish; the partnership +expressing man and wife. No Poetry and no Art ever charmed the +imagination more than the union of the two in this counterfeit cottage +charmed Mrs Plornish. It was nothing to her that Plornish had a habit +of leaning against it as he smoked his pipe after work, when his +hat blotted out the pigeon-house and all the pigeons, when his back +swallowed up the dwelling, when his hands in his pockets uprooted the +blooming garden and laid waste the adjacent country. To Mrs Plornish, it +was still a most beautiful cottage, a most wonderful deception; and +it made no difference that Mr Plornish’s eye was some inches above the +level of the gable bed-room in the thatch. To come out into the shop +after it was shut, and hear her father sing a song inside this cottage, +was a perfect Pastoral to Mrs Plornish, the Golden Age revived. And +truly if that famous period had been revived, or had ever been at all, +it may be doubted whether it would have produced many more heartily +admiring daughters than the poor woman. + +Warned of a visitor by the tinkling bell at the shop-door, Mrs Plornish +came out of Happy Cottage to see who it might be. ‘I guessed it was +you, Mr Pancks,’ said she, ‘for it’s quite your regular night; ain’t it? +Here’s father, you see, come out to serve at the sound of the bell, like +a brisk young shopman. Ain’t he looking well? Father’s more pleased to +see you than if you was a customer, for he dearly loves a gossip; and +when it turns upon Miss Dorrit, he loves it all the more. You never +heard father in such voice as he is at present,’ said Mrs Plornish, her +own voice quavering, she was so proud and pleased. ‘He gave us Strephon +last night to that degree that Plornish gets up and makes him this +speech across the table. “John Edward Nandy,” says Plornish to father, +“I never heard you come the warbles as I have heard you come the warbles +this night.” An’t it gratifying, Mr Pancks, though; really?’ + +Mr Pancks, who had snorted at the old man in his friendliest manner, +replied in the affirmative, and casually asked whether that lively Altro +chap had come in yet? Mrs Plornish answered no, not yet, though he had +gone to the West-End with some work, and had said he should be back +by tea-time. Mr Pancks was then hospitably pressed into Happy Cottage, +where he encountered the elder Master Plornish just come home from +school. Examining that young student, lightly, on the educational +proceedings of the day, he found that the more advanced pupils who +were in the large text and the letter M, had been set the copy ‘Merdle, +Millions.’ + +‘And how are _you_ getting on, Mrs Plornish,’ said Pancks, ‘since we’re +mentioning millions?’ + +‘Very steady, indeed, sir,’ returned Mrs Plornish. ‘Father, dear, would +you go into the shop and tidy the window a little bit before tea, your +taste being so beautiful?’ + +John Edward Nandy trotted away, much gratified, to comply with his +daughter’s request. Mrs Plornish, who was always in mortal terror +of mentioning pecuniary affairs before the old gentleman, lest any +disclosure she made might rouse his spirit and induce him to run away to +the workhouse, was thus left free to be confidential with Mr Pancks. + +‘It’s quite true that the business is very steady indeed,’ said Mrs +Plornish, lowering her voice; ‘and has a excellent connection. The only +thing that stands in its way, sir, is the Credit.’ + +This drawback, rather severely felt by most people who engaged in +commercial transactions with the inhabitants of Bleeding Heart Yard, +was a large stumbling-block in Mrs Plornish’s trade. When Mr Dorrit had +established her in the business, the Bleeding Hearts had shown an amount +of emotion and a determination to support her in it, that did honour to +human nature. Recognising her claim upon their generous feelings as one +who had long been a member of their community, they pledged themselves, +with great feeling, to deal with Mrs Plornish, come what would and +bestow their patronage on no other establishment. Influenced by these +noble sentiments, they had even gone out of their way to purchase little +luxuries in the grocery and butter line to which they were unaccustomed; +saying to one another, that if they did stretch a point, was it not for +a neighbour and a friend, and for whom ought a point to be stretched if +not for such? So stimulated, the business was extremely brisk, and the +articles in stock went off with the greatest celerity. In short, if the + +Bleeding Hearts had but paid, the undertaking would have been a complete +success; whereas, by reason of their exclusively confining themselves to +owing, the profits actually realised had not yet begun to appear in the +books. + +Mr Pancks was making a very porcupine of himself by sticking his hair +up in the contemplation of this state of accounts, when old Mr Nandy, +re-entering the cottage with an air of mystery, entreated them to come +and look at the strange behaviour of Mr Baptist, who seemed to have met +with something that had scared him. All three going into the shop, and +watching through the window, then saw Mr Baptist, pale and agitated, go +through the following extraordinary performances. First, he was observed +hiding at the top of the steps leading down into the Yard, and peeping +up and down the street with his head cautiously thrust out close to the +side of the shop-door. After very anxious scrutiny, he came out of +his retreat, and went briskly down the street as if he were going away +altogether; then, suddenly turned about, and went, at the same pace, and +with the same feint, up the street. He had gone no further up the street +than he had gone down, when he crossed the road and disappeared. The +object of this last manoeuvre was only apparent, when his entering the +shop with a sudden twist, from the steps again, explained that he +had made a wide and obscure circuit round to the other, or Doyce and +Clennam, end of the Yard, and had come through the Yard and bolted in. +He was out of breath by that time, as he might well be, and his heart +seemed to jerk faster than the little shop-bell, as it quivered and +jingled behind him with his hasty shutting of the door. + +‘Hallo, old chap!’ said Mr Pancks. ‘Altro, old boy! What’s the matter?’ + +Mr Baptist, or Signor Cavalletto, understood English now almost as well +as Mr Pancks himself, and could speak it very well too. Nevertheless, +Mrs Plornish, with a pardonable vanity in that accomplishment of hers +which made her all but Italian, stepped in as interpreter. + +‘E ask know,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘what go wrong?’ + +‘Come into the happy little cottage, Padrona,’ returned Mr Baptist, +imparting great stealthiness to his flurried back-handed shake of his +right forefinger. ‘Come there!’ + +Mrs Plornish was proud of the title Padrona, which she regarded as +signifying: not so much Mistress of the house, as Mistress of the +Italian tongue. She immediately complied with Mr Baptist’s request, and +they all went into the cottage. + +‘E ope you no fright,’ said Mrs Plornish then, interpreting Mr Pancks +in a new way with her usual fertility of resource. ‘What appen? Peaka +Padrona!’ + +‘I have seen some one,’ returned Baptist. ‘I have rincontrato him.’ + +‘Im? Oo him?’ asked Mrs Plornish. + +‘A bad man. A baddest man. I have hoped that I should never see him +again.’ + +‘Ow you know him bad?’ asked Mrs Plornish. + +‘It does not matter, Padrona. I know it too well.’ + +‘E see you?’ asked Mrs Plornish. + +‘No. I hope not. I believe not.’ + +‘He says,’ Mrs Plornish then interpreted, addressing her father and +Pancks with mild condescension, ‘that he has met a bad man, but he hopes +the bad man didn’t see him--Why,’ inquired Mrs Plornish, reverting to +the Italian language, ‘why ope bad man no see?’ + +‘Padrona, dearest,’ returned the little foreigner whom she so +considerately protected, ‘do not ask, I pray. Once again I say it +matters not. I have fear of this man. I do not wish to see him, I do not +wish to be known of him--never again! Enough, most beautiful. Leave it.’ + +The topic was so disagreeable to him, and so put his usual liveliness to +the rout, that Mrs Plornish forbore to press him further: the rather as +the tea had been drawing for some time on the hob. But she was not the +less surprised and curious for asking no more questions; neither was +Mr Pancks, whose expressive breathing had been labouring hard since the +entrance of the little man, like a locomotive engine with a great load +getting up a steep incline. Maggy, now better dressed than of yore, +though still faithful to the monstrous character of her cap, had been +in the background from the first with open mouth and eyes, which staring +and gaping features were not diminished in breadth by the untimely +suppression of the subject. However, no more was said about it, though +much appeared to be thought on all sides: by no means excepting the two +young Plornishes, who partook of the evening meal as if their eating +the bread and butter were rendered almost superfluous by the painful +probability of the worst of men shortly presenting himself for the +purpose of eating them. Mr Baptist, by degrees began to chirp a little; +but never stirred from the seat he had taken behind the door and close +to the window, though it was not his usual place. As often as the little +bell rang, he started and peeped out secretly, with the end of the +little curtain in his hand and the rest before his face; evidently not +at all satisfied but that the man he dreaded had tracked him through all +his doublings and turnings, with the certainty of a terrible bloodhound. + +The entrance, at various times, of two or three customers and of Mr +Plornish, gave Mr Baptist just enough of this employment to keep the +attention of the company fixed upon him. Tea was over, and the children +were abed, and Mrs Plornish was feeling her way to the dutiful proposal +that her father should favour them with Chloe, when the bell rang again, +and Mr Clennam came in. + +Clennam had been poring late over his books and letters; for the +waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office ravaged his time sorely. +Over and above that, he was depressed and made uneasy by the late +occurrence at his mother’s. He looked worn and solitary. He felt so, +too; but, nevertheless, was returning home from his counting-house by +that end of the Yard to give them the intelligence that he had received +another letter from Miss Dorrit. + +The news made a sensation in the cottage which drew off the general +attention from Mr Baptist. Maggy, who pushed her way into the foreground +immediately, would have seemed to draw in the tidings of her Little +Mother equally at her ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, but that the last +were obstructed by tears. She was particularly delighted when Clennam +assured her that there were hospitals, and very kindly conducted +hospitals, in Rome. Mr Pancks rose into new distinction in virtue of +being specially remembered in the letter. Everybody was pleased and +interested, and Clennam was well repaid for his trouble. + +‘But you are tired, sir. Let me make you a cup of tea,’ said Mrs +Plornish, ‘if you’d condescend to take such a thing in the cottage; and +many thanks to you, too, I am sure, for bearing us in mind so kindly.’ + +Mr Plornish deeming it incumbent on him, as host, to add his personal +acknowledgments, tendered them in the form which always expressed his +highest ideal of a combination of ceremony with sincerity. + +‘John Edward Nandy,’ said Mr Plornish, addressing the old gentleman. +‘Sir. It’s not too often that you see unpretending actions without a +spark of pride, and therefore when you see them give grateful honour +unto the same, being that if you don’t, and live to want ‘em, it follows +serve you right.’ + +To which Mr Nandy replied: + +‘I am heartily of your opinion, Thomas, and which your opinion is the +same as mine, and therefore no more words and not being backwards +with that opinion, which opinion giving it as yes, Thomas, yes, is the +opinion in which yourself and me must ever be unanimously jined by all, +and where there is not difference of opinion there can be none but one +opinion, which fully no, Thomas, Thomas, no!’ + +Arthur, with less formality, expressed himself gratified by their high +appreciation of so very slight an attention on his part; and explained +as to the tea that he had not yet dined, and was going straight home to +refresh after a long day’s labour, or he would have readily accepted the +hospitable offer. As Mr Pancks was somewhat noisily getting his steam +up for departure, he concluded by asking that gentleman if he would walk +with him? Mr Pancks said he desired no better engagement, and the two +took leave of Happy Cottage. + +‘If you will come home with me, Pancks,’ said Arthur, when they got into +the street, ‘and will share what dinner or supper there is, it will +be next door to an act of charity; for I am weary and out of sorts +to-night.’ + +‘Ask me to do a greater thing than that,’ said Pancks, ‘when you want it +done, and I’ll do it.’ + +Between this eccentric personage and Clennam, a tacit understanding and +accord had been always improving since Mr Pancks flew over Mr Rugg’s +back in the Marshalsea Yard. When the carriage drove away on the +memorable day of the family’s departure, these two had looked after it +together, and had walked slowly away together. When the first letter +came from little Dorrit, nobody was more interested in hearing of +her than Mr Pancks. The second letter, at that moment in Clennam’s +breast-pocket, particularly remembered him by name. Though he had never +before made any profession or protestation to Clennam, and though what +he had just said was little enough as to the words in which it was +expressed, Clennam had long had a growing belief that Mr Pancks, in +his own odd way, was becoming attached to him. All these strings +intertwining made Pancks a very cable of anchorage that night. + +‘I am quite alone,’ Arthur explained as they walked on. ‘My partner is +away, busily engaged at a distance on his branch of our business, and +you shall do just as you like.’ + +‘Thank you. You didn’t take particular notice of little Altro just now; +did you?’ said Pancks. + +‘No. Why?’ + +‘He’s a bright fellow, and I like him,’ said Pancks. ‘Something has +gone amiss with him to-day. Have you any idea of any cause that can have +overset him?’ + +‘You surprise me! None whatever.’ + +Mr Pancks gave his reasons for the inquiry. Arthur was quite unprepared +for them, and quite unable to suggest an explanation of them. + +‘Perhaps you’ll ask him,’ said Pancks, ‘as he’s a stranger?’ + +‘Ask him what?’ returned Clennam. + +‘What he has on his mind.’ + +‘I ought first to see for myself that he has something on his mind, I +think,’ said Clennam. ‘I have found him in every way so diligent, so +grateful (for little enough), and so trustworthy, that it might look +like suspecting him. And that would be very unjust.’ + +‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘But, I say! You oughtn’t to be anybody’s +proprietor, Mr Clennam. You’re much too delicate.’ + +‘For the matter of that,’ returned Clennam laughing, ‘I have not a large +proprietary share in Cavalletto. His carving is his livelihood. He keeps +the keys of the Factory, watches it every alternate night, and acts as a +sort of housekeeper to it generally; but we have little work in the way +of his ingenuity, though we give him what we have. No! I am rather his +adviser than his proprietor. To call me his standing counsel and his +banker would be nearer the fact. Speaking of being his banker, is it not +curious, Pancks, that the ventures which run just now in so many +people’s heads, should run even in little Cavalletto’s?’ + +‘Ventures?’ retorted Pancks, with a snort. ‘What ventures?’ + +‘These Merdle enterprises.’ + +‘Oh! Investments,’ said Pancks. ‘Ay, ay! I didn’t know you were speaking +of investments.’ + +His quick way of replying caused Clennam to look at him, with a doubt +whether he meant more than he said. As it was accompanied, however, with +a quickening of his pace and a corresponding increase in the labouring +of his machinery, Arthur did not pursue the matter, and they soon +arrived at his house. + +A dinner of soup and a pigeon-pie, served on a little round table before +the fire, and flavoured with a bottle of good wine, oiled Mr Pancks’s +works in a highly effective manner; so that when Clennam produced his +Eastern pipe, and handed Mr Pancks another Eastern pipe, the latter +gentleman was perfectly comfortable. + +They puffed for a while in silence, Mr Pancks like a steam-vessel +with wind, tide, calm water, and all other sea-going conditions in her +favour. He was the first to speak, and he spoke thus: + +‘Yes. Investments is the word.’ + +Clennam, with his former look, said ‘Ah!’ + +‘I am going back to it, you see,’ said Pancks. + +‘Yes. I see you are going back to it,’ returned Clennam, wondering why. + +‘Wasn’t it a curious thing that they should run in little Altro’s head? +Eh?’ said Pancks as he smoked. ‘Wasn’t that how you put it?’ + +‘That was what I said.’ + +‘Ay! But think of the whole Yard having got it. Think of their +all meeting me with it, on my collecting days, here and there and +everywhere. Whether they pay, or whether they don’t pay. Merdle, Merdle, +Merdle. Always Merdle.’ + +‘Very strange how these runs on an infatuation prevail,’ said Arthur. + +‘An’t it?’ returned Pancks. After smoking for a minute or so, more drily +than comported with his recent oiling, he added: ‘Because you see these +people don’t understand the subject.’ + +‘Not a bit,’ assented Clennam. + +‘Not a bit,’ cried Pancks. ‘Know nothing of figures. Know nothing of +money questions. Never made a calculation. Never worked it, sir!’ + +‘If they had--’ Clennam was going on to say; when Mr Pancks, without +change of countenance, produced a sound so far surpassing all his usual +efforts, nasal or bronchial, that he stopped. + +‘If they had?’ repeated Pancks in an inquiring tone. + +‘I thought you--spoke,’ said Arthur, hesitating what name to give the +interruption. + +‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Not yet. I may in a minute. If they had?’ + +‘If they had,’ observed Clennam, who was a little at a loss how to take +his friend, ‘why, I suppose they would have known better.’ + +‘How so, Mr Clennam?’ Pancks asked quickly, and with an odd effect of +having been from the commencement of the conversation loaded with the +heavy charge he now fired off. ‘They’re right, you know. They don’t mean +to be, but they’re right.’ + +‘Right in sharing Cavalletto’s inclination to speculate with Mr Merdle?’ + +‘Per-fectly, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve gone into it. I’ve made the +calculations. I’ve worked it. They’re safe and genuine.’ Relieved by +having got to this, Mr Pancks took as long a pull as his lungs would +permit at his Eastern pipe, and looked sagaciously and steadily at +Clennam while inhaling and exhaling too. + +In those moments, Mr Pancks began to give out the dangerous infection +with which he was laden. It is the manner of communicating these +diseases; it is the subtle way in which they go about. + +‘Do you mean, my good Pancks,’ asked Clennam emphatically, ‘that you +would put that thousand pounds of yours, let us say, for instance, out +at this kind of interest?’ + +‘Certainly,’ said Pancks. ‘Already done it, sir.’ + +Mr Pancks took another long inhalation, another long exhalation, another +long sagacious look at Clennam. + +‘I tell you, Mr Clennam, I’ve gone into it,’ said Pancks. ‘He’s a man of +immense resources--enormous capital--government influence. They’re the +best schemes afloat. They’re safe. They’re certain.’ + +‘Well!’ returned Clennam, looking first at him gravely and then at the +fire gravely. ‘You surprise me!’ + +‘Bah!’ Pancks retorted. ‘Don’t say that, sir. It’s what you ought to do +yourself! Why don’t you do as I do?’ + +Of whom Mr Pancks had taken the prevalent disease, he could no more have +told than if he had unconsciously taken a fever. Bred at first, as many +physical diseases are, in the wickedness of men, and then disseminated +in their ignorance, these epidemics, after a period, get communicated to +many sufferers who are neither ignorant nor wicked. Mr Pancks might, or +might not, have caught the illness himself from a subject of this class; +but in this category he appeared before Clennam, and the infection he +threw off was all the more virulent. + +‘And you have really invested,’ Clennam had already passed to that word, +‘your thousand pounds, Pancks?’ + +‘To be sure, sir!’ replied Pancks boldly, with a puff of smoke. ‘And +only wish it ten!’ + +Now, Clennam had two subjects lying heavy on his lonely mind that night; +the one, his partner’s long-deferred hope; the other, what he had seen +and heard at his mother’s. In the relief of having this companion, +and of feeling that he could trust him, he passed on to both, and both +brought him round again, with an increase and acceleration of force, to +his point of departure. + +It came about in the simplest manner. Quitting the investment subject, +after an interval of silent looking at the fire through the smoke of his +pipe, he told Pancks how and why he was occupied with the great National +Department. ‘A hard case it has been, and a hard case it is on Doyce,’ +he finished by saying, with all the honest feeling the topic roused in +him. + +‘Hard indeed,’ Pancks acquiesced. ‘But you manage for him, Mr Clennam?’ + +‘How do you mean?’ + +‘Manage the money part of the business?’ + +‘Yes. As well as I can.’ + +‘Manage it better, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘Recompense him for his toils and +disappointments. Give him the chances of the time. He’ll never benefit +himself in that way, patient and preoccupied workman. He looks to you, +sir.’ + +‘I do my best, Pancks,’ returned Clennam, uneasily. ‘As to duly weighing +and considering these new enterprises of which I have had no experience, +I doubt if I am fit for it, I am growing old.’ + +‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Ha, ha!’ + +There was something so indubitably genuine in the wonderful laugh, and +series of snorts and puffs, engendered in Mr Pancks’s astonishment at, +and utter rejection of, the idea, that his being quite in earnest could +not be questioned. + +‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Old? Hear him, hear +him!’ + +The positive refusal expressed in Mr Pancks’s continued snorts, no less +than in these exclamations, to entertain the sentiment for a single +instant, drove Arthur away from it. Indeed, he was fearful of something +happening to Mr Pancks in the violent conflict that took place between +the breath he jerked out of himself and the smoke he jerked into +himself. This abandonment of the second topic threw him on the third. + +‘Young, old, or middle-aged, Pancks,’ he said, when there was a +favourable pause, ‘I am in a very anxious and uncertain state; a state +that even leads me to doubt whether anything now seeming to belong to +me, may be really mine. Shall I tell you how this is? Shall I put a +great trust in you?’ + +‘You shall, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you believe me worthy of it.’ + +‘I do.’ + +‘You may!’ Mr Pancks’s short and sharp rejoinder, confirmed by the +sudden outstretching of his coaly hand, was most expressive and +convincing. Arthur shook the hand warmly. + +He then, softening the nature of his old apprehensions as much as was +possible consistently with their being made intelligible and never +alluding to his mother by name, but speaking vaguely of a relation +of his, confided to Mr Pancks a broad outline of the misgivings he +entertained, and of the interview he had witnessed. Mr Pancks listened +with such interest that, regardless of the charms of the Eastern pipe, +he put it in the grate among the fire-irons, and occupied his hands +during the whole recital in so erecting the loops and hooks of hair +all over his head, that he looked, when it came to a conclusion, like a +journeyman Hamlet in conversation with his father’s spirit. + +‘Brings me back, sir,’ was his exclamation then, with a startling touch +on Clennam’s knee, ‘brings me back, sir, to the Investments! I don’t +say anything of your making yourself poor to repair a wrong you never +committed. That’s you. A man must be himself. But I say this, +fearing you may want money to save your own blood from exposure and +disgrace--make as much as you can!’ + +Arthur shook his head, but looked at him thoughtfully too. + +‘Be as rich as you can, sir,’ Pancks adjured him with a powerful +concentration of all his energies on the advice. ‘Be as rich as you +honestly can. It’s your duty. Not for your sake, but for the sake of +others. Take time by the forelock. Poor Mr Doyce (who really _is_ growing +old) depends upon you. Your relative depends upon you. You don’t know +what depends upon you.’ + +‘Well, well, well!’ returned Arthur. ‘Enough for to-night.’ + +‘One word more, Mr Clennam,’ retorted Pancks, ‘and then enough for +to-night. Why should you leave all the gains to the gluttons, knaves, +and impostors? Why should you leave all the gains that are to be got to +my proprietor and the like of him? Yet you’re always doing it. When I +say you, I mean such men as you. You know you are. Why, I see it +every day of my life. I see nothing else. It’s my business to see it. +Therefore I say,’ urged Pancks, ‘Go in and win!’ + +‘But what of Go in and lose?’ said Arthur. + +‘Can’t be done, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘I have looked into it. Name up +everywhere--immense resources--enormous capital--great position--high +connection--government influence. Can’t be done!’ + +Gradually, after this closing exposition, Mr Pancks subsided; allowed +his hair to droop as much as it ever would droop on the utmost +persuasion; reclaimed the pipe from the fire-irons, filled it anew, and +smoked it out. They said little more; but were company to one another in +silently pursuing the same subjects, and did not part until midnight. +On taking his leave, Mr Pancks, when he had shaken hands with Clennam, +worked completely round him before he steamed out at the door. This, +Arthur received as an assurance that he might implicitly rely on Pancks, +if he ever should come to need assistance; either in any of the matters +of which they had spoken that night, or any other subject that could in +any way affect himself. + +At intervals all next day, and even while his attention was fixed on +other things, he thought of Mr Pancks’s investment of his thousand +pounds, and of his having ‘looked into it.’ He thought of Mr Pancks’s +being so sanguine in this matter, and of his not being usually of a +sanguine character. He thought of the great National Department, and of +the delight it would be to him to see Doyce better off. He thought +of the darkly threatening place that went by the name of Home in his +remembrance, and of the gathering shadows which made it yet more darkly +threatening than of old. He observed anew that wherever he went, he +saw, or heard, or touched, the celebrated name of Merdle; he found it +difficult even to remain at his desk a couple of hours, without having +it presented to one of his bodily senses through some agency or other. +He began to think it was curious too that it should be everywhere, and +that nobody but he should seem to have any mistrust of it. Though indeed +he began to remember, when he got to this, even _he_ did not mistrust it; +he had only happened to keep aloof from it. + +Such symptoms, when a disease of the kind is rife, are usually the signs +of sickening. + + + + +CHAPTER 14. Taking Advice + + +When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow Tiber +that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one of the +Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a piece of news +with which they had no nearer concern than with any other piece of +news--any other Accident or Offence--in the English papers. Some +laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that the post was +virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his name was good +enough for it; some, and these the more solemn political oracles, +said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen himself, and that the sole +constitutional purpose of all places within the gift of Decimus, was, +that Decimus _should_ strengthen himself. A few bilious Britons there were +who would not subscribe to this article of faith; but their objection +was purely theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly +abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons +unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great numbers +of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty consecutive hours, +that those invisible and anonymous Britons ‘ought to take it up;’ and +that if they quietly acquiesced in it, they deserved it. But of what +class the remiss Britons were composed, and where the unlucky creatures +hid themselves, and why they hid themselves, and how it constantly +happened that they neglected their interests, when so many other Britons +were quite at a loss to account for their not looking after those +interests, was not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the +shore of the black Thames, made apparent to men. + +Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on it, +with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the setting +displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the place. Mr Merdle +wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She hoped Edmund might like +it, but really she didn’t know. It would keep him in town a good +deal, and he preferred the country. Still, it was not a disagreeable +position--and it was a position. There was no denying that the thing +was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and was not a bad thing for Edmund if he +liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and +it was just as well that he should have something for doing it. Whether +it would be more agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen. + +Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things of +small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While Henry +Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole round of +his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano, +vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was +the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted, altogether most lovable jackass +that ever grazed on the public common; and that only one circumstance +could have delighted him (Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass’s) +getting this post, and that would have been his (Gowan’s) getting it +himself. He said it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing +to do, and he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to +draw, and he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate, +capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of +himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great an +affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence stop here. +He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr Sparkler out, and +make him conspicuous before the company; and, although the considerate +action always resulted in that young gentleman’s making a dreary and +forlorn mental spectacle of himself, the friendly intention was not to +be doubted. + +Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr Sparkler’s +affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult situation of being +universally known in that light, and of not having dismissed Mr +Sparkler, however capriciously she used him. Hence, she was sufficiently +identified with the gentleman to feel compromised by his being more than +usually ridiculous; and hence, being by no means deficient in quickness, +she sometimes came to his rescue against Gowan, and did him very good +service. But, while doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined +whether to get rid of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted +with apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more +immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs +Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it is no +subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in a state +of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle’s house, and on her +sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from +the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared +with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was +dead. + +‘Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.’ + +‘Matter, you little Mole,’ said Fanny. ‘If you were not the blindest of +the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to +pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what’s +the matter!’ + +‘Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?’ + +‘Mis-ter Spark-ler!’ repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he were +the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be near her +mind. ‘No, Miss Bat, it is not.’ + +Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her +sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself +hateful, but that everybody drove her to it. + +‘I don’t think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.’ + +‘Stuff and nonsense!’ replied the young lady, turning angry again; ‘I am +as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of +it.’ + +Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing +words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At +first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that +of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most +trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a +wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she +made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told +so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never _was_ told so, +and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and +goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told +her looking-glass), she didn’t want to be forgiven. It was not a right +example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a +younger sister. And this was the Art of it--that she was always being +placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not. +Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and +sat close at her side to comfort her, said, ‘Amy, you’re an Angel!’ + +‘But, I tell you what, my Pet,’ said Fanny, when her sister’s gentleness +had calmed her, ‘it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not +go on as they are at present going on, and that there must be an end of +this, one way or another.’ + +As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little Dorrit +returned, ‘Let us talk about it.’ + +‘Quite so, my dear,’ assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. ‘Let us talk +about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise me. _Will_ you +advise me, my sweet child?’ + +Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, ‘I will, Fanny, as well as +I can.’ + +‘Thank you, dearest Amy,’ returned Fanny, kissing her. ‘You are my +anchor.’ + +Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of +sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her maid for a fine +handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant for the night, and went +on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and forehead from time to time to +cool them. + +‘My love,’ Fanny began, ‘our characters and points of view are +sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very +probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What I am +going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property, we labour, +socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don’t quite understand what +I mean, Amy?’ + +‘I have no doubt I shall,’ said Amy, mildly, ‘after a few words more.’ + +‘Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers into +fashionable life.’ + +‘I am sure, Fanny,’ Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous admiration, +‘no one need find that out in you.’ + +‘Well, my dear child, perhaps not,’ said Fanny, ‘though it’s most kind +and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.’ Here she +dabbed her sister’s forehead, and blew upon it a little. ‘But you are,’ +resumed Fanny, ‘as is well known, the dearest little thing that ever +was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely gentlemanly and extremely well +informed, but he is, in some trifling respects, a little different from +other gentlemen of his fortune: partly on account of what he has gone +through, poor dear: partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in +his mind that other people are thinking about that, while he is talking +to them. Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear +creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking, +shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don’t mean +that there is anything ungenteel in that itself--far from it--but I +do mean that he doesn’t do it well, and that he doesn’t, if I may +so express myself, get the money’s-worth in the sort of dissipated +reputation that attaches to him.’ + +‘Poor Edward!’ sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history in +the sigh. + +‘Yes. And poor you and me, too,’ returned Fanny, rather sharply. +‘Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs General. +And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may reverse a +common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves who _will_ +catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident, will be our +mother-in-law.’ + +‘I can hardly think, Fanny--’ Fanny stopped her. + +‘Now, don’t argue with me about it, Amy,’ said she, ‘because I know +better.’ Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her sister’s +forehead again, and blew upon it again. ‘To resume once more, my dear. +It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you +very well know: too much so, I dare say) whether I shall make up my mind +to take it upon myself to carry the family through.’ + +‘How?’ asked her sister, anxiously. + +‘I will not,’ said Fanny, without answering the question, ‘submit to +be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be, in any +respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs Merdle.’ + +Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of sweet +water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite punishing her own +forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to give it, fitfully went +on. + +‘That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence, attained a +very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very good connection, +no one can deny. And as to the question of clever or not clever, I doubt +very much whether a clever husband would be suitable to me. I cannot +submit. I should not be able to defer to him enough.’ + +‘O, my dear Fanny!’ expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of +terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant. ‘If you +loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved any one, you +would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose and forget yourself +in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny--’ Fanny had stopped +the dabbing hand, and was looking at her fixedly. + +‘O, indeed!’ cried Fanny. ‘Really? Bless me, how much some people know +of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I certainly +seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was only in +fun,’ dabbing her sister’s forehead; ‘but don’t you be a silly puss, +and don’t you think flightily and eloquently about degenerate +impossibilities. There! Now, I’ll go back to myself.’ + +‘Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked for +a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to Mr +Sparkler.’ + +‘_Let_ you say, my dear?’ retorted Fanny. ‘Why, of course, I will _let_ +you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We are +together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I have not the +slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or to-morrow morning +either.’ + +‘But at some time?’ + +‘At no time, for anything I know at present,’ answered Fanny, with +indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a burning +restlessness, she added, ‘You talk about the clever men, you little +thing! It’s all very fine and easy to talk about the clever men; but +where are they? _I_ don’t see them anywhere near _me_!’ + +‘My dear Fanny, so short a time--’ + +‘Short time or long time,’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I am impatient of our +situation. I don’t like our situation, and very little would induce +me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and differently +circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or may do. Let +them. They are driven by their lives and characters; I am driven by +mine.’ + +‘Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you the +wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.’ + +‘Amy, my dear Amy,’ retorted Fanny, parodying her words, ‘I know that I +wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which I can assert +myself with greater effect against that insolent woman.’ + +‘Would you therefore--forgive my asking, Fanny--therefore marry her +son?’ + +‘Why, perhaps,’ said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. ‘There may be many +less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, my dear. That piece +of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great success to get her +son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps, she little thinks how I +would retort upon her if I married her son. I would oppose her in +everything, and compete with her. I would make it the business of my +life.’ + +Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about the +room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke. + +‘One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older. And I +would!’ + +This was followed by another walk. + +‘I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know--if I +didn’t, but I should from her son--all about her age. And she should +hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately: +how well she looked, considering her time of life. I could make her seem +older at once, by being myself so much younger. I may not be as handsome +as she is; I am not a fair judge of that question, I suppose; but I know +I am handsome enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!’ + +‘My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for +this?’ + +‘It wouldn’t be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am fitted +for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances, is no matter; +I am better fitted for such a life than for almost any other.’ + +There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a +short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great +looking-glass came to another stop. + +‘Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will give her +her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all others that it is +altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am not so sure of it. Give +some much younger woman the latitude as to dress that she has, being +married; and we would see about that, my dear!’ + +Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought her +back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister’s hands in hers, +and clapped all four hands above her head as she looked in her sister’s +face laughing: + +‘And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten--the dancer who bore +no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her, oh dear +no!--should dance through her life, and dance in her way, to such a tune +as would disturb her insolent placidity a little. Just a little, my dear +Amy, just a little!’ + +Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy’s face, she brought the +four hands down, and laid only one on Amy’s lips. + +‘Now, don’t argue with me, child,’ she said in a sterner way, ‘because +it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better than you do. I +have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be. Now we have talked this +over comfortably, and may go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse, +Good night!’ With those words Fanny weighed her Anchor, and--having +taken so much advice--left off being advised for that occasion. + +Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler’s treatment by his enslaver, +with new reasons for attaching importance to all that passed between +them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite unable to endure his +mental feebleness, and when she became so sharply impatient of it that +she would all but dismiss him for good. There were other times when she +got on much better with him; when he amused her, and when her sense of +superiority seemed to counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If +Mr Sparkler had been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of +swains, he was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of +his trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to London +between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater will of his +own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship; and he followed +his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on equally strong +compulsion. + +Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said +more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through her +eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations of her +beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands. The defiant +character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings (as it generally +happened that she did), was not expressive of concessions to the +impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the bosom took was, to say +audibly, ‘A spoilt beauty--but with that face and shape, who could +wonder?’ + +It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of the +new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some new +understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as if in +attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first looking +towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet ever to look +back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to speak, she remained +silent; if he had not, she herself spoke. Moreover, it became plain +whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform the friendly office of drawing +him out, that he was not to be drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would +presently, without any pointed application in the world, chance to say +something with such a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he +had put his hand into a bee-hive. + +There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm +Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance +in itself. Mr Sparkler’s demeanour towards herself changed. It became +fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of assemblies--at +their own residence, at Mrs Merdle’s, or elsewhere--she would find +herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr Sparkler’s arm. Mr +Sparkler never offered the slightest explanation of this attention; +but merely smiled with an air of blundering, contented, good-natured +proprietorship, which, in so heavy a gentleman, was ominously +expressive. + +Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy +heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, nearly +all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street, and commanding +all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso, both up and down. At +three or four o’clock in the afternoon, English time, the view from this +window was very bright and peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit +and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time in her +balcony at Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the +shoulder, and Fanny said, ‘Well, Amy dear,’ and took her seat at her +side. Their seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in +the way of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies +hung out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look +out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no procession +that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by Fanny’s being at +home at that hour, as she was generally out on horseback then. + +‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘what are you thinking of, little one?’ + +‘I was thinking of you, Fanny.’ + +‘No? What a coincidence! I declare here’s some one else. You were not +thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?’ + +Amy _had_ been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr Sparkler. +She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand. Mr Sparkler +came and sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the fraternal +railing come behind her, and apparently stretch on to include Fanny. + +‘Well, my little sister,’ said Fanny with a sigh, ‘I suppose you know +what this means?’ + +‘She’s as beautiful as she’s doated on,’ stammered Mr Sparkler--‘and +there’s no nonsense about her--it’s arranged--’ + +‘You needn’t explain, Edmund,’ said Fanny. + +‘No, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler. + +‘In short, pet,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘on the whole, we are engaged. We +must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according to the +opportunities. Then it’s done, and very little more need be said.’ + +‘My dear Fanny,’ said Mr Sparkler, with deference, ‘I should like to say +a word to Amy.’ + +‘Well, well! Say it for goodness’ sake,’ returned the young lady. + +‘I am convinced, my dear Amy,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that if ever there +was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister, who had no +nonsense about her--’ + +‘We know all about that, Edmund,’ interposed Miss Fanny. ‘Never mind +that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no nonsense about +us.’ + +‘Yes, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘And I assure you, Amy, that nothing +can be a greater happiness to myself, myself--next to the happiness of +being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious girl who hasn’t +an atom of--’ + +‘Pray, Edmund, pray!’ interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her pretty +foot upon the floor. + +‘My love, you’re quite right,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘and I know I have a +habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be a greater +happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of being united to +pre-eminently the most glorious of girls--than to have the happiness +of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of Amy. I may not myself,’ +said Mr Sparkler manfully, ‘be up to the mark on some other subjects +at a short notice, and I am aware that if you were to poll Society the +general opinion would be that I am not; but on the subject of Amy I AM +up to the mark!’ + +Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof. + +‘A knife and fork and an apartment,’ proceeded Mr Sparkler, growing, in +comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite diffuse, ‘will ever +be at Amy’s disposal. My Governor, I am sure, will always be proud to +entertain one whom I so much esteem. And regarding my mother,’ said Mr +Sparkler, ‘who is a remarkably fine woman, with--’ + +‘Edmund, Edmund!’ cried Miss Fanny, as before. + +‘With submission, my soul,’ pleaded Mr Sparkler. ‘I know I have a habit +of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for taking the +trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all sides to be a +remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn’t any.’ + +‘That may be, or may not be,’ returned Fanny, ‘but pray don’t mention it +any more.’ + +‘I will not, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler. + +‘Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?’ +inquired Fanny. + +‘So far from it, my adorable girl,’ answered Mr Sparkler, ‘I apologise +for having said so much.’ + +Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question +implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal +railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission, take +his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy, as well +as she could discharge that office in the flutter and distress of her +spirits. + +When he was gone, she said, ‘O Fanny, Fanny!’ and turned to her sister +in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried there. Fanny +laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her sister’s and cried +too--a little. It was the last time Fanny ever showed that there was any +hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling in her on the matter. From that +hour the way she had chosen lay before her, and she trod it with her own +imperious self-willed step. + + + + +CHAPTER 15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons +should not be joined together + + +Mr Dorrit, on being informed by his elder daughter that she had accepted +matrimonial overtures from Mr Sparkler, to whom she had plighted her +troth, received the communication at once with great dignity and with a +large display of parental pride; his dignity dilating with the widened +prospect of advantageous ground from which to make acquaintances, and +his parental pride being developed by Miss Fanny’s ready sympathy with +that great object of his existence. He gave her to understand that her +noble ambition found harmonious echoes in his heart; and bestowed +his blessing on her, as a child brimful of duty and good principle, +self-devoted to the aggrandisement of the family name. + +To Mr Sparkler, when Miss Fanny permitted him to appear, Mr Dorrit said, +he would not disguise that the alliance Mr Sparkler did him the honour +to propose was highly congenial to his feelings; both as being in unison +with the spontaneous affections of his daughter Fanny, and as opening +a family connection of a gratifying nature with Mr Merdle, the +master spirit of the age. Mrs Merdle also, as a leading lady rich in +distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty, he mentioned in very laudatory +terms. He felt it his duty to remark (he was sure a gentleman of Mr +Sparkler’s fine sense would interpret him with all delicacy), that he +could not consider this proposal definitely determined on, until he +should have had the privilege of holding some correspondence with Mr +Merdle; and of ascertaining it to be so far accordant with the views +of that eminent gentleman as that his (Mr Dorrit’s) daughter would be +received on that footing which her station in life and her dowry and +expectations warranted him in requiring that she should maintain in +what he trusted he might be allowed, without the appearance of being +mercenary, to call the Eye of the Great World. While saying this, which +his character as a gentleman of some little station, and his character +as a father, equally demanded of him, he would not be so diplomatic +as to conceal that the proposal remained in hopeful abeyance and +under conditional acceptance, and that he thanked Mr Sparkler for the +compliment rendered to himself and to his family. He concluded with +some further and more general observations on the--ha--character of an +independent gentleman, and the--hum--character of a possibly too +partial and admiring parent. To sum the whole up shortly, he received +Mr Sparkler’s offer very much as he would have received three or four +half-crowns from him in the days that were gone. + +Mr Sparkler, finding himself stunned by the words thus heaped upon his +inoffensive head, made a brief though pertinent rejoinder; the same +being neither more nor less than that he had long perceived Miss Fanny +to have no nonsense about her, and that he had no doubt of its being all +right with his Governor. At that point the object of his affections shut +him up like a box with a spring lid, and sent him away. + +Proceeding shortly afterwards to pay his respects to the Bosom, Mr +Dorrit was received by it with great consideration. Mrs Merdle had heard +of this affair from Edmund. She had been surprised at first, because she +had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Society had not thought Edmund +a marrying man. Still, of course she had seen, as a woman (we women +did instinctively see these things, Mr Dorrit!), that Edmund had been +immensely captivated by Miss Dorrit, and she had openly said that Mr +Dorrit had much to answer for in bringing so charming a girl abroad to +turn the heads of his countrymen. + +‘Have I the honour to conclude, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that the +direction which Mr Sparkler’s affections have taken, is--ha-approved of +by you?’ + +‘I assure you, Mr Dorrit,’ returned the lady, ‘that, personally, I am +charmed.’ + +That was very gratifying to Mr Dorrit. + +‘Personally,’ repeated Mrs Merdle, ‘charmed.’ + +This casual repetition of the word ‘personally,’ moved Mr Dorrit to +express his hope that Mr Merdle’s approval, too, would not be wanting? + +‘I cannot,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘take upon myself to answer positively for +Mr Merdle; gentlemen, especially gentlemen who are what Society calls +capitalists, having their own ideas of these matters. But I should +think--merely giving an opinion, Mr Dorrit--I should think Mr Merdle +would be upon the whole,’ here she held a review of herself before +adding at her leisure, ‘quite charmed.’ + +At the mention of gentlemen whom Society called capitalists, Mr Dorrit +had coughed, as if some internal demur were breaking out of him. Mrs +Merdle had observed it, and went on to take up the cue. + +‘Though, indeed, Mr Dorrit, it is scarcely necessary for me to make that +remark, except in the mere openness of saying what is uppermost to one +whom I so highly regard, and with whom I hope I may have the pleasure +of being brought into still more agreeable relations. For one cannot +but see the great probability of your considering such things from Mr +Merdle’s own point of view, except indeed that circumstances have made +it Mr Merdle’s accidental fortune, or misfortune, to be engaged in +business transactions, and that they, however vast, may a little cramp +his horizons. I am a very child as to having any notion of business,’ +said Mrs Merdle; ‘but I am afraid, Mr Dorrit, it may have that +tendency.’ + +This skilful see-saw of Mr Dorrit and Mrs Merdle, so that each of them +sent the other up, and each of them sent the other down, and neither +had the advantage, acted as a sedative on Mr Dorrit’s cough. He remarked +with his utmost politeness, that he must beg to protest against its +being supposed, even by Mrs Merdle, the accomplished and graceful +(to which compliment she bent herself), that such enterprises as Mr +Merdle’s, apart as they were from the puny undertakings of the rest of +men, had any lower tendency than to enlarge and expand the genius in +which they were conceived. ‘You are generosity itself,’ said Mrs Merdle +in return, smiling her best smile; ‘let us hope so. But I confess I am +almost superstitious in my ideas about business.’ + +Mr Dorrit threw in another compliment here, to the effect that business, +like the time which was precious in it, was made for slaves; and that it +was not for Mrs Merdle, who ruled all hearts at her supreme pleasure, +to have anything to do with it. Mrs Merdle laughed, and conveyed to +Mr Dorrit an idea that the Bosom flushed--which was one of her best +effects. + +‘I say so much,’ she then explained, ‘merely because Mr Merdle has +always taken the greatest interest in Edmund, and has always expressed +the strongest desire to advance his prospects. Edmund’s public position, +I think you know. His private position rests solely with Mr Merdle. In +my foolish incapacity for business, I assure you I know no more.’ + +Mr Dorrit again expressed, in his own way, the sentiment that business +was below the ken of enslavers and enchantresses. He then mentioned his +intention, as a gentleman and a parent, of writing to Mr Merdle. Mrs +Merdle concurred with all her heart--or with all her art, which was +exactly the same thing--and herself despatched a preparatory letter by +the next post to the eighth wonder of the world. + +In his epistolary communication, as in his dialogues and discourses on +the great question to which it related, Mr Dorrit surrounded the +subject with flourishes, as writing-masters embellish copy-books and +ciphering-books: where the titles of the elementary rules of +arithmetic diverge into swans, eagles, griffins, and other calligraphic +recreations, and where the capital letters go out of their minds and +bodies into ecstasies of pen and ink. Nevertheless, he did render the +purport of his letter sufficiently clear, to enable Mr Merdle to make a +decent pretence of having learnt it from that source. Mr Merdle replied +to it accordingly. Mr Dorrit replied to Mr Merdle; Mr Merdle replied to +Mr Dorrit; and it was soon announced that the corresponding powers had +come to a satisfactory understanding. + +Now, and not before, Miss Fanny burst upon the scene, completely arrayed +for her new part. Now and not before, she wholly absorbed Mr Sparkler in +her light, and shone for both, and twenty more. No longer feeling that +want of a defined place and character which had caused her so much +trouble, this fair ship began to steer steadily on a shaped course, and +to swim with a weight and balance that developed her sailing qualities. + +‘The preliminaries being so satisfactorily arranged, I think I will now, +my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘announce--ha--formally, to Mrs General--’ + +‘Papa,’ returned Fanny, taking him up short upon that name, ‘I don’t see +what Mrs General has got to do with it.’ + +‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘it will be an act of courtesy to--hum--a +lady, well bred and refined--’ + +‘Oh! I am sick of Mrs General’s good breeding and refinement, papa,’ +said Fanny. ‘I am tired of Mrs General.’ + +‘Tired,’ repeated Mr Dorrit in reproachful astonishment, ‘of--ha--Mrs +General.’ + +‘Quite disgusted with her, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I really don’t see what +she has to do with my marriage. Let her keep to her own matrimonial +projects--if she has any.’ + +‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with a grave and weighty slowness upon him, +contrasting strongly with his daughter’s levity: ‘I beg the favour of +your explaining--ha--what it is you mean.’ + +‘I mean, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘that if Mrs General should happen to have +any matrimonial projects of her own, I dare say they are quite enough to +occupy her spare time. And that if she has not, so much the better; but +still I don’t wish to have the honour of making announcements to her.’ + +‘Permit me to ask you, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘why not?’ + +‘Because she can find my engagement out for herself, papa,’ retorted +Fanny. ‘She is watchful enough, I dare say. I think I have seen her +so. Let her find it out for herself. If she should not find it out for +herself, she will know it when I am married. And I hope you will not +consider me wanting in affection for you, papa, if I say it strikes me +that will be quite enough for Mrs General.’ + +‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, ‘I am amazed, I am displeased by +this--hum--this capricious and unintelligible display of animosity +towards--ha--Mrs General.’ + +‘Do not, if you please, papa,’ urged Fanny, ‘call it animosity, because +I assure you I do not consider Mrs General worth my animosity.’ + +At this, Mr Dorrit rose from his chair with a fixed look of severe +reproof, and remained standing in his dignity before his daughter. His +daughter, turning the bracelet on her arm, and now looking at him, and +now looking from him, said, ‘Very well, papa. I am truly sorry if you +don’t like it; but I can’t help it. I am not a child, and I am not Amy, +and I must speak.’ + +‘Fanny,’ gasped Mr Dorrit, after a majestic silence, ‘if I request +you to remain here, while I formally announce to Mrs General, as +an exemplary lady, who is--hum--a trusted member of this family, +the--ha--the change that is contemplated among us; if I--ha--not only +request it, but--hum--insist upon it--’ + +‘Oh, papa,’ Fanny broke in with pointed significance, ‘if you make so +much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I +may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help +it under the circumstances.’ So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which, +in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not +deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler +into his presence. + +‘Mrs General.’ + +Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the +fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all +its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, ‘How dare +you, sir? What do you mean?’ + +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ pleaded Mr Tinkler, ‘I was wishful to know--’ + +‘You wished to know nothing, sir,’ cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed. +‘Don’t tell me you did. Ha. You didn’t. You are guilty of mockery, sir.’ + +‘I assure you, sir--’ Mr Tinkler began. + +‘Don’t assure me!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not be assured by a +domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me--hum--the whole +establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?’ + +‘Only for my orders, sir.’ + +‘It’s false,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have your orders. Ha--hum. My +compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if +quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.’ + +In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr +Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General’s skirts were +very speedily heard outside, coming along--one might almost have said +bouncing along--with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at +the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness. + +‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘take a chair.’ + +Mrs General, with a graceful curve of acknowledgment, descended into the +chair which Mr Dorrit offered. + +‘Madam,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘as you have had the kindness to +undertake the--hum--formation of my daughters, and as I am persuaded +that nothing nearly affecting them can--ha--be indifferent to you--’ + +‘Wholly impossible,’ said Mrs General in the calmest of ways. + +‘--I therefore wish to announce to you, madam, that my daughter now +present--’ + +Mrs General made a slight inclination of her head to Fanny, who made +a very low inclination of her head to Mrs General, and came loftily +upright again. + +‘--That my daughter Fanny is--ha--contracted to be married to Mr +Sparkler, with whom you are acquainted. Hence, madam, you will be +relieved of half your difficult charge--ha--difficult charge.’ Mr +Dorrit repeated it with his angry eye on Fanny. ‘But not, I hope, to +the--hum--diminution of any other portion, direct or indirect, of the +footing you have at present the kindness to occupy in my family.’ + +‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloved hands resting on +one another in exemplary repose, ‘is ever considerate, and ever but too +appreciative of my friendly services.’ + +(Miss Fanny coughed, as much as to say, ‘You are right.’) + +‘Miss Dorrit has no doubt exercised the soundest discretion of which +the circumstances admitted, and I trust will allow me to offer her my +sincere congratulations. When free from the trammels of passion,’ Mrs +General closed her eyes at the word, as if she could not utter it, and +see anybody; ‘when occurring with the approbation of near relatives; +and when cementing the proud structure of a family edifice; these are +usually auspicious events. I trust Miss Dorrit will allow me to offer +her my best congratulations.’ + +Here Mrs General stopped, and added internally, for the setting of her +face, ‘Papa, potatoes, poultry, Prunes, and prism.’ + +‘Mr Dorrit,’ she superadded aloud, ‘is ever most obliging; and for +the attention, and I will add distinction, of having this confidence +imparted to me by himself and Miss Dorrit at this early time, I beg to +offer the tribute of my thanks. My thanks, and my congratulations, are +equally the meed of Mr Dorrit and of Miss Dorrit.’ + +‘To me,’ observed Miss Fanny, ‘they are excessively +gratifying--inexpressibly so. The relief of finding that you have no +objection to make, Mrs General, quite takes a load off my mind, I am +sure. I hardly know what I should have done,’ said Fanny, ‘if you had +interposed any objection, Mrs General.’ + +Mrs General changed her gloves, as to the right glove being uppermost +and the left undermost, with a Prunes and Prism smile. + +‘To preserve your approbation, Mrs General,’ said Fanny, returning the +smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, ‘will +of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of +course be perfect wretchedness. I am sure your great kindness will +not object, and I hope papa will not object, to my correcting a +small mistake you have made, however. The best of us are so liable to +mistakes, that even you, Mrs General, have fallen into a little error. +The attention and distinction you have so impressively mentioned, Mrs +General, as attaching to this confidence, are, I have no doubt, of the +most complimentary and gratifying description; but they don’t at all +proceed from me. The merit of having consulted you on the subject would +have been so great in me, that I feel I must not lay claim to it when it +really is not mine. It is wholly papa’s. I am deeply obliged to you for +your encouragement and patronage, but it was papa who asked for it. +I have to thank you, Mrs General, for relieving my breast of a great +weight by so handsomely giving your consent to my engagement, but you +have really nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of +my proceedings after I have left home and that my sister also may long +remain the favoured object of your condescension, Mrs General.’ + +With this address, which was delivered in her politest manner, Fanny +left the room with an elegant and cheerful air--to tear up-stairs with +a flushed face as soon as she was out of hearing, pounce in upon her +sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her for the better opening of +her eyes, tell her what had passed below, and ask her what she thought +of Pa now? + +Towards Mrs Merdle, the young lady comported herself with great +independence and self-possession; but not as yet with any more decided +opening of hostilities. Occasionally they had a slight skirmish, as when +Fanny considered herself patted on the back by that lady, or as when Mrs +Merdle looked particularly young and well; but Mrs Merdle always soon +terminated those passages of arms by sinking among her cushions with the +gracefullest indifference, and finding her attention otherwise engaged. +Society (for that mysterious creature sat upon the Seven Hills too) +found Miss Fanny vastly improved by her engagement. She was much more +accessible, much more free and engaging, much less exacting; insomuch +that she now entertained a host of followers and admirers, to the bitter +indignation of ladies with daughters to marry, who were to be regarded +as Having revolted from Society on the Miss Dorrit grievance, and +erected a rebellious standard. Enjoying the flutter she caused. Miss +Dorrit not only haughtily moved through it in her own proper person, but +haughtily, even Ostentatiously, led Mr Sparkler through it too: seeming +to say to them all, ‘If I think proper to march among you in triumphal +procession attended by this weak captive in bonds, rather than a +stronger one, that is my business. Enough that I choose to do it!’ Mr +Sparkler for his part, questioned nothing; but went wherever he was +taken, did whatever he was told, felt that for his bride-elect to be +distinguished was for him to be distinguished on the easiest terms, and +was truly grateful for being so openly acknowledged. + +The winter passing on towards the spring while this condition of affairs +prevailed, it became necessary for Mr Sparkler to repair to England, and +take his appointed part in the expression and direction of its genius, +learning, commerce, spirit, and sense. The land of Shakespeare, Milton, +Bacon, Newton, Watt, the land of a host of past and present abstract +philosophers, natural philosophers, and subduers of Nature and Art in +their myriad forms, called to Mr Sparkler to come and take care of it, +lest it should perish. Mr Sparkler, unable to resist the agonised cry +from the depths of his country’s soul, declared that he must go. + +It followed that the question was rendered pressing when, where, and +how Mr Sparkler should be married to the foremost girl in all this world +with no nonsense about her. Its solution, after some little mystery and +secrecy, Miss Fanny herself announced to her sister. + +‘Now, my child,’ said she, seeking her out one day, ‘I am going to tell +you something. It is only this moment broached; and naturally I hurry to +you the moment it _is_ broached.’ + +‘Your marriage, Fanny?’ + +‘My precious child,’ said Fanny, ‘don’t anticipate me. Let me impart my +confidence to you, you flurried little thing, in my own way. As to your +guess, if I answered it literally, I should answer no. For really it is +not my marriage that is in question, half as much as it is Edmund’s.’ + +Little Dorrit looked, and perhaps not altogether without cause, somewhat +at a loss to understand this fine distinction. + +‘I am in no difficulty,’ exclaimed Fanny, ‘and in no hurry. I am not +wanted at any public office, or to give any vote anywhere else. +But Edmund is. And Edmund is deeply dejected at the idea of going away +by himself, and, indeed, I don’t like that he should be trusted by +himself. For, if it’s possible--and it generally is--to do a foolish +thing, he is sure to do it.’ + +As she concluded this impartial summary of the reliance that might be +safely placed upon her future husband, she took off, with an air of +business, the bonnet she wore, and dangled it by its strings upon the +ground. + +‘It is far more Edmund’s question, therefore, than mine. However, we +need say no more about that. That is self-evident on the face of it. +Well, my dearest Amy! The point arising, is he to go by himself, or is +he not to go by himself, this other point arises, are we to be married +here and shortly, or are we to be married at home months hence?’ + +‘I see I am going to lose you, Fanny.’ + +‘What a little thing you are,’ cried Fanny, half tolerant and half +impatient, ‘for anticipating one! Pray, my darling, hear me out. That +woman,’ she spoke of Mrs Merdle, of course, ‘remains here until after +Easter; so, in the case of my being married here and going to London +with Edmund, I should have the start of her. That is something. Further, +Amy. That woman being out of the way, I don’t know that I greatly object +to Mr Merdle’s proposal to Pa that Edmund and I should take up our abode +in that house--_you_ know--where you once went with a dancer, my dear, +until our own house can be chosen and fitted up. Further still, Amy. +Papa having always intended to go to town himself, in the spring,--you +see, if Edmund and I were married here, we might go off to Florence, +where papa might join us, and we might all three travel home together. +Mr Merdle has entreated Pa to stay with him in that same mansion I have +mentioned, and I suppose he will. But he is master of his own actions; +and upon that point (which is not at all material) I can’t speak +positively.’ + +The difference between papa’s being master of his own actions and Mr +Sparkler’s being nothing of the sort, was forcibly expressed by Fanny in +her manner of stating the case. Not that her sister noticed it; for she +was divided between regret at the coming separation, and a lingering +wish that she had been included in the plans for visiting England. + +‘And these are the arrangements, Fanny dear?’ + +‘Arrangements!’ repeated Fanny. ‘Now, really, child, you are a little +trying. You know I particularly guarded myself against laying my words +open to any such construction. What I said was, that certain questions +present themselves; and these are the questions.’ + +Little Dorrit’s thoughtful eyes met hers, tenderly and quietly. + +‘Now, my own sweet girl,’ said Fanny, weighing her bonnet by the strings +with considerable impatience, ‘it’s no use staring. A little owl could +stare. I look to you for advice, Amy. What do you advise me to do?’ + +‘Do you think,’ asked Little Dorrit, persuasively, after a short +hesitation, ‘do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a +few months, it might be, considering all things, best?’ + +‘No, little Tortoise,’ retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. ‘I +don’t think anything of the kind.’ + +Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a +chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out +of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and +all, in her arms. + +‘Don’t suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not. +But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off, +when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn’t I tell you, you +dearest baby, that Edmund can’t be trusted by himself? And don’t you +know that he can’t?’ + +‘Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.’ + +‘And you know it, I know,’ retorted Fanny. ‘Well, my precious child! If +he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should +go with him?’ + +‘It--seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit. + +‘Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry +out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you +advise me to make them?’ + +‘It--seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit again. + +‘Very well,’ cried Fanny with an air of resignation, ‘then I suppose it +must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and +the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.’ + +After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice +and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one +who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and +felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. ‘After all, my +Amy,’ she said to her sister, ‘you are the best of small creatures, and +full of good sense; and I don’t know what I shall ever do without you!’ + +With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond +one. + +‘Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope +we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going +to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs +General--’ + +‘I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?’ said Little Dorrit, +quietly. + +‘Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call +Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and +still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I +was going to say--but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting +one out--when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don’t you +let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is +looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can. +I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But +don’t you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when +he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your +mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice +to you is, that you say at once, “Papa, I beg to object most strongly. +Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object.” I don’t +mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the +smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree +of firmness. But there is a principle involved--a filial principle--and +I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General, +without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as +possible. I don’t expect you to stand by it--indeed, I know you won’t, +Pa being concerned--but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to +any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a +match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight +I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of +attractions--used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that +woman--I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and +false hair (for I am confident it’s not all real, ugly as it is and +unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the +expense of buying it) of Mrs General!’ + +Little Dorrit received this counsel without venturing to oppose it but +without giving Fanny any reason to believe that she intended to act upon +it. Having now, as it were, formally wound up her single life and +arranged her worldly affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour +to prepare for the serious change in her condition. + +The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the +protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride +on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow +an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes +of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it +declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased +by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the +intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an +immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated +the Beggar’s Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them +were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions, +that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of +silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the +wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through +all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch, +and arrived at its journey’s end in fine condition. + +There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose +gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active +preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were +to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out +to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made +arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various +outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English +Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from +forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace +the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to +work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a +run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn’t had such a marriage +in the whole of his Consularity. + +The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with +envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days. +The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery, +whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous +hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the +Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might +have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of +Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its +countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient +things--even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes--might +have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable +pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to +look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged +and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the +day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand +churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter +denied that he had anything to do with it. + +But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day’s journey +towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they +were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first +Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for +the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had +mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the +Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair +pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a +long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to +have gone the same road, before and since. + +If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low +that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of +depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old +time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be +thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on +the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there +was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must +have put on caps as high as the Pope’s Mitre, and have performed the +mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before +he could have got it. + +He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply +loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him +as he was--when had she not accepted him as he was!--and made the most +and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the +night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary +that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent +its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries, +amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little +Dorrit then put her arm round her father’s neck, to bid him good night. + +‘Amy, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, ‘this is the +close of a day, that has--ha--greatly impressed and gratified me.’ + +‘A little tired you, dear, too?’ + +‘No,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises +from an occasion so--hum--replete with gratification of the purest +kind.’ + +Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her +own heart. + +‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘this is an occasion--ha--teeming with a good +example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child--hum--to +you.’ + +Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though +he stopped as if he expected her to say something. + +‘Amy,’ he resumed; ‘your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted +ha hum--a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of +our--ha--connection, and to--hum--consolidate our social relations. My +love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some--ha--eligible +partner may be found for you.’ + +‘Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I +want nothing but to stay and take care of you!’ + +She said it like one in sudden alarm. + +‘Nay, Amy, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘This is weak and foolish, weak +and foolish. You have a--ha--responsibility imposed upon you by your +position. It is to develop that position, and be--hum--worthy of that +position. As to taking care of me; I can--ha--take care of myself. +Or,’ he added after a moment, ‘if I should need to be taken care of, +I--hum--can, with the--ha--blessing of Providence, be taken care of, +I--ha hum--I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and--ha--as it +were, sacrificing you.’ + +O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial; +at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to +believe it, if such a thing could be! + +‘Don’t speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I--ha--must not do +it. My--hum--conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take +the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion +of--ha--solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose +of mine to see you--ha--eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.’ + +‘Oh no, dear! Pray!’ + +‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I am well persuaded that if the topic were +referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior +delicacy and sense--let us say, for instance, to--ha--Mrs General--that +there would not be two opinions as to the--hum--affectionate character +and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful +nature from--hum--from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is +necessary to say no more. I have--hum--no husband to propose at +present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we +should--ha--understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole +remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!’ + +If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit’s head that night, that he +could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in +his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful +to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him +single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder +reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything +through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that +they should continue rich, and grow richer. + +They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for +three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny. +Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for +the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking +of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the +Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to +her, as long as any one could be got for money. + +Mrs General took life easily--as easily, that is, as she could +take anything--when the Roman establishment remained in their sole +occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage +that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old +Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the +old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old +tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old +Marshalsea--ruins of her own old life--ruins of the faces and forms +that of old peopled it--ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys. Two +ruined spheres of action and suffering were before the solitary girl +often sitting on some broken fragment; and in the lonely places, under +the blue sky, she saw them both together. + +Up, then, would come Mrs General; taking all the colour out of +everything, as Nature and Art had taken it out of herself; writing +Prunes and Prism, in Mr Eustace’s text, wherever she could lay a hand; +looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else; +scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them +whole without any human visitings--like a Ghoule in gloves. + + + + +CHAPTER 16. Getting on + + +The newly married pair, on their arrival in Harley Street, Cavendish +Square, London, were received by the Chief Butler. That great man was +not interested in them, but on the whole endured them. People must +continue to be married and given in marriage, or Chief Butlers would not +be wanted. As nations are made to be taxed, so families are made to +be butlered. The Chief Butler, no doubt, reflected that the course of +nature required the wealthy population to be kept up, on his account. + +He therefore condescended to look at the carriage from the Hall-door +without frowning at it, and said, in a very handsome way, to one of +his men, ‘Thomas, help with the luggage.’ He even escorted the Bride +up-stairs into Mr Merdle’s presence; but this must be considered as an +act of homage to the sex (of which he was an admirer, being notoriously +captivated by the charms of a certain Duchess), and not as a committal +of himself with the family. + +Mr Merdle was slinking about the hearthrug, waiting to welcome Mrs +Sparkler. His hand seemed to retreat up his sleeve as he advanced to +do so, and he gave her such a superfluity of coat-cuff that it was like +being received by the popular conception of Guy Fawkes. When he put his +lips to hers, besides, he took himself into custody by the wrists, and +backed himself among the ottomans and chairs and tables as if he were +his own Police officer, saying to himself, ‘Now, none of that! Come! +I’ve got you, you know, and you go quietly along with me!’ + +Mrs Sparkler, installed in the rooms of state--the innermost sanctuary +of down, silk, chintz, and fine linen--felt that so far her triumph was +good, and her way made, step by step. On the day before her marriage, +she had bestowed on Mrs Merdle’s maid with an air of gracious +indifference, in Mrs Merdle’s presence, a trifling little keepsake +(bracelet, bonnet, and two dresses, all new) about four times as +valuable as the present formerly made by Mrs Merdle to her. She was now +established in Mrs Merdle’s own rooms, to which some extra touches had +been given to render them more worthy of her occupation. In her mind’s +eye, as she lounged there, surrounded by every luxurious accessory that +wealth could obtain or invention devise, she saw the fair bosom that +beat in unison with the exultation of her thoughts, competing with the +bosom that had been famous so long, outshining it, and deposing it. +Happy? Fanny must have been happy. No more wishing one’s self dead now. + +The Courier had not approved of Mr Dorrit’s staying in the house of +a friend, and had preferred to take him to an hotel in Brook Street, +Grosvenor Square. Mr Merdle ordered his carriage to be ready early +in the morning that he might wait upon Mr Dorrit immediately after +breakfast. + +Bright the carriage looked, sleek the horses looked, gleaming the +harness looked, luscious and lasting the liveries looked. A rich, +responsible turn-out. An equipage for a Merdle. Early people looked +after it as it rattled along the streets, and said, with awe in their +breath, ‘There he goes!’ + +There he went, until Brook Street stopped him. Then, forth from its +magnificent case came the jewel; not lustrous in itself, but quite the +contrary. + +Commotion in the office of the hotel. Merdle! The landlord, though +a gentleman of a haughty spirit who had just driven a pair of +thorough-bred horses into town, turned out to show him up-stairs. +The clerks and servants cut him off by back-passages, and were found +accidentally hovering in doorways and angles, that they might look upon +him. Merdle! O ye sun, moon, and stars, the great man! The rich man, who +had in a manner revised the New Testament, and already entered into the +kingdom of Heaven. The man who could have any one he chose to dine with +him, and who had made the money! As he went up the stairs, people were +already posted on the lower stairs, that his shadow might fall upon them +when he came down. So were the sick brought out and laid in the track of +the Apostle--who had _not_ got into the good society, and had _not_ made +the money. + +Mr Dorrit, dressing-gowned and newspapered, was at his breakfast. The +Courier, with agitation in his voice, announced ‘Miss Mairdale!’ Mr +Dorrit’s overwrought heart bounded as he leaped up. + +‘Mr Merdle, this is--ha--indeed an honour. Permit me to express +the--hum--sense, the high sense, I entertain of this--ha hum--highly +gratifying act of attention. I am well aware, sir, of the many demands +upon your time, and its--ha--enormous value,’ Mr Dorrit could not +say enormous roundly enough for his own satisfaction. ‘That you +should--ha--at this early hour, bestow any of your priceless time upon +me, is--ha--a compliment that I acknowledge with the greatest esteem.’ +Mr Dorrit positively trembled in addressing the great man. + +Mr Merdle uttered, in his subdued, inward, hesitating voice, a few +sounds that were to no purpose whatever; and finally said, ‘I am glad to +see you, sir.’ + +‘You are very kind,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Truly kind.’ By this time the +visitor was seated, and was passing his great hand over his exhausted +forehead. ‘You are well, I hope, Mr Merdle?’ + +‘I am as well as I--yes, I am as well as I usually am,’ said Mr Merdle. + +‘Your occupations must be immense.’ + +‘Tolerably so. But--Oh dear no, there’s not much the matter with _me_,’ +said Mr Merdle, looking round the room. + +‘A little dyspeptic?’ Mr Dorrit hinted. + +‘Very likely. But I--Oh, I am well enough,’ said Mr Merdle. + +There were black traces on his lips where they met, as if a little train +of gunpowder had been fired there; and he looked like a man who, if his +natural temperament had been quicker, would have been very feverish that +morning. This, and his heavy way of passing his hand over his forehead, +had prompted Mr Dorrit’s solicitous inquiries. + +‘Mrs Merdle,’ Mr Dorrit insinuatingly pursued, ‘I left, as you will be +prepared to hear, the--ha--observed of all observers, the--hum--admired +of all admirers, the leading fascination and charm of Society in Rome. +She was looking wonderfully well when I quitted it.’ + +‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘is generally considered a very attractive +woman. And she is, no doubt. I am sensible of her being so.’ + +‘Who can be otherwise?’ responded Mr Dorrit. + +Mr Merdle turned his tongue in his closed mouth--it seemed rather a +stiff and unmanageable tongue--moistened his lips, passed his hand over +his forehead again, and looked all round the room again, principally +under the chairs. + +‘But,’ he said, looking Mr Dorrit in the face for the first time, and +immediately afterwards dropping his eyes to the buttons of Mr Dorrit’s +waistcoat; ‘if we speak of attractions, your daughter ought to be the +subject of our conversation. She is extremely beautiful. Both in face +and figure, she is quite uncommon. When the young people arrived last +night, I was really surprised to see such charms.’ + +Mr Dorrit’s gratification was such that he said--ha--he could not +refrain from telling Mr Merdle verbally, as he had already done by +letter, what honour and happiness he felt in this union of their +families. And he offered his hand. Mr Merdle looked at the hand for a +little while, took it on his for a moment as if his were a yellow salver +or fish-slice, and then returned it to Mr Dorrit. + +‘I thought I would drive round the first thing,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘to +offer my services, in case I can do anything for you; and to say that +I hope you will at least do me the honour of dining with me to-day, and +every day when you are not better engaged during your stay in town.’ + +Mr Dorrit was enraptured by these attentions. + +‘Do you stay long, sir?’ + +‘I have not at present the intention,’ said Mr Dorrit, +‘of--ha--exceeding a fortnight.’ + +‘That’s a very short stay, after so long a journey,’ returned Mr Merdle. + +‘Hum. Yes,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘But the truth is--ha--my dear Mr Merdle, +that I find a foreign life so well suited to my health and taste, that +I--hum--have but two objects in my present visit to London. First, +the--ha--the distinguished happiness and--ha--privilege which I now +enjoy and appreciate; secondly, the arrangement--hum--the laying out, +that is to say, in the best way, of--ha, hum--my money.’ + +‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, after turning his tongue again, ‘if I can +be of any use to you in that respect, you may command me.’ + +Mr Dorrit’s speech had had more hesitation in it than usual, as he +approached the ticklish topic, for he was not perfectly clear how so +exalted a potentate might take it. He had doubts whether reference to +any individual capital, or fortune, might not seem a wretchedly retail +affair to so wholesale a dealer. Greatly relieved by Mr Merdle’s +affable offer of assistance, he caught at it directly, and heaped +acknowledgments upon him. + +‘I scarcely--ha--dared,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I assure you, to hope for +so--hum--vast an advantage as your direct advice and assistance. Though +of course I should, under any circumstances, like the--ha, hum--rest of +the civilised world, have followed in Mr Merdle’s train.’ + +‘You know we may almost say we are related, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, +curiously interested in the pattern of the carpet, ‘and, therefore, you +may consider me at your service.’ + +‘Ha. Very handsome, indeed!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha. Most handsome!’ + +‘It would not,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘be at the present moment easy for +what I may call a mere outsider to come into any of the good things--of +course I speak of my own good things--’ + +‘Of course, of course!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in a tone implying that there +were no other good things. + +‘--Unless at a high price. At what we are accustomed to term a very long +figure.’ + +Mr Dorrit laughed in the buoyancy of his spirit. Ha, ha, ha! Long +figure. Good. Ha. Very expressive to be sure! + +‘However,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I do generally retain in my own hands the +power of exercising some preference--people in general would be pleased +to call it favour--as a sort of compliment for my care and trouble.’ + +‘And public spirit and genius,’ Mr Dorrit suggested. + +Mr Merdle, with a dry, swallowing action, seemed to dispose of those +qualities like a bolus; then added, ‘As a sort of return for it. I will +see, if you please, how I can exert this limited power (for people are +jealous, and it is limited), to your advantage.’ + +‘You are very good,’ replied Mr Dorrit. ‘You are _very_ good.’ + +‘Of course,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘there must be the strictest integrity +and uprightness in these transactions; there must be the purest faith +between man and man; there must be unimpeached and unimpeachable +confidence; or business could not be carried on.’ + +Mr Dorrit hailed these generous sentiments with fervour. + +‘Therefore,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I can only give you a preference to a +certain extent.’ + +‘I perceive. To a defined extent,’ observed Mr Dorrit. + +‘Defined extent. And perfectly above-board. As to my advice, however,’ +said Mr Merdle, ‘that is another matter. That, such as it is--’ + +Oh! Such as it was! (Mr Dorrit could not bear the faintest appearance of +its being depreciated, even by Mr Merdle himself.) + +‘--That, there is nothing in the bonds of spotless honour between myself +and my fellow-man to prevent my parting with, if I choose. And that,’ +said Mr Merdle, now deeply intent upon a dust-cart that was passing the +windows, ‘shall be at your command whenever you think proper.’ + +New acknowledgments from Mr Dorrit. New passages of Mr Merdle’s hand +over his forehead. Calm and silence. Contemplation of Mr Dorrit’s +waistcoat buttons by Mr Merdle. + +‘My time being rather precious,’ said Mr Merdle, suddenly getting up, +as if he had been waiting in the interval for his legs and they had just +come, ‘I must be moving towards the City. Can I take you anywhere, sir? +I shall be happy to set you down, or send you on. My carriage is at your +disposal.’ + +Mr Dorrit bethought himself that he had business at his banker’s. His +banker’s was in the City. That was fortunate; Mr Merdle would take +him into the City. But, surely, he might not detain Mr Merdle while he +assumed his coat? Yes, he might and must; Mr Merdle insisted on it. So +Mr Dorrit, retiring into the next room, put himself under the hands of +his valet, and in five minutes came back glorious. + +Then said Mr Merdle, ‘Allow me, sir. Take my arm!’ Then leaning on +Mr Merdle’s arm, did Mr Dorrit descend the staircase, seeing the +worshippers on the steps, and feeling that the light of Mr Merdle shone +by reflection in himself. Then the carriage, and the ride into the +City; and the people who looked at them; and the hats that flew off grey +heads; and the general bowing and crouching before this wonderful mortal +the like of which prostration of spirit was not to be seen--no, by +high Heaven, no! It may be worth thinking of by Fawners of all +denominations--in Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul’s Cathedral put +together, on any Sunday in the year. It was a rapturous dream to Mr +Dorrit to find himself set aloft in this public car of triumph, making a +magnificent progress to that befitting destination, the golden Street of +the Lombards. + +There Mr Merdle insisted on alighting and going his way a-foot, and +leaving his poor equipage at Mr Dorrit’s disposition. So the dream +increased in rapture when Mr Dorrit came out of the bank alone, and +people looked at _him_ in default of Mr Merdle, and when, with the ears of +his mind, he heard the frequent exclamation as he rolled glibly along, +‘A wonderful man to be Mr Merdle’s friend!’ + +At dinner that day, although the occasion was not foreseen and provided +for, a brilliant company of such as are not made of the dust of the +earth, but of some superior article for the present unknown, shed +their lustrous benediction upon Mr Dorrit’s daughter’s marriage. And Mr +Dorrit’s daughter that day began, in earnest, her competition with that +woman not present; and began it so well that Mr Dorrit could all but +have taken his affidavit, if required, that Mrs Sparkler had all her +life been lying at full length in the lap of luxury, and had never heard +of such a rough word in the English tongue as Marshalsea. + +Next day, and the day after, and every day, all graced by more dinner +company, cards descended on Mr Dorrit like theatrical snow. As the +friend and relative by marriage of the illustrious Merdle, Bar, Bishop, +Treasury, Chorus, Everybody, wanted to make or improve Mr Dorrit’s +acquaintance. In Mr Merdle’s heap of offices in the City, when Mr Dorrit +appeared at any of them on his business taking him Eastward (which it +frequently did, for it throve amazingly), the name of Dorrit was always +a passport to the great presence of Merdle. So the dream increased in +rapture every hour, as Mr Dorrit felt increasingly sensible that this +connection had brought him forward indeed. + +Only one thing sat otherwise than auriferously, and at the same time +lightly, on Mr Dorrit’s mind. It was the Chief Butler. That stupendous +character looked at him, in the course of his official looking at the +dinners, in a manner that Mr Dorrit considered questionable. He looked +at him, as he passed through the hall and up the staircase, going to +dinner, with a glazed fixedness that Mr Dorrit did not like. Seated +at table in the act of drinking, Mr Dorrit still saw him through his +wine-glass, regarding him with a cold and ghostly eye. It misgave him +that the Chief Butler must have known a Collegian, and must have seen +him in the College--perhaps had been presented to him. He looked as +closely at the Chief Butler as such a man could be looked at, and yet +he did not recall that he had ever seen him elsewhere. Ultimately he was +inclined to think that there was no reverence in the man, no sentiment +in the great creature. But he was not relieved by that; for, let him +think what he would, the Chief Butler had him in his supercilious eye, +even when that eye was on the plate and other table-garniture; and he +never let him out of it. To hint to him that this confinement in his eye +was disagreeable, or to ask him what he meant, was an act too daring to +venture upon; his severity with his employers and their visitors being +terrific, and he never permitting himself to be approached with the +slightest liberty. + + + + +CHAPTER 17. Missing + + +The term of Mr Dorrit’s visit was within two days of being out, and he +was about to dress for another inspection by the Chief Butler (whose +victims were always dressed expressly for him), when one of the servants +of the hotel presented himself bearing a card. Mr Dorrit, taking it, +read: + +‘Mrs Finching.’ + +The servant waited in speechless deference. + +‘Man, man,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning upon him with grievous indignation, +‘explain your motive in bringing me this ridiculous name. I am wholly +unacquainted with it. Finching, sir?’ said Mr Dorrit, perhaps avenging +himself on the Chief Butler by Substitute. ‘Ha! What do you mean by +Finching?’ + +The man, man, seemed to mean Flinching as much as anything else, for +he backed away from Mr Dorrit’s severe regard, as he replied, ‘A lady, +sir.’ + +‘I know no such lady, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Take this card away. I know +no Finching of either sex.’ + +‘Ask your pardon, sir. The lady said she was aware she might be unknown +by name. But she begged me to say, sir, that she had formerly the honour +of being acquainted with Miss Dorrit. The lady said, sir, the youngest +Miss Dorrit.’ + +Mr Dorrit knitted his brows and rejoined, after a moment or two, ‘Inform +Mrs Finching, sir,’ emphasising the name as if the innocent man were +solely responsible for it, ‘that she can come up.’ + +He had reflected, in his momentary pause, that unless she were admitted +she might leave some message, or might say something below, having +a disgraceful reference to that former state of existence. Hence the +concession, and hence the appearance of Flora, piloted in by the man, +man. + +‘I have not the pleasure,’ said Mr Dorrit, standing with the card in his +hand, and with an air which imported that it would scarcely have been a +first-class pleasure if he had had it, ‘of knowing either this name, or +yourself, madam. Place a chair, sir.’ + +The responsible man, with a start, obeyed, and went out on tiptoe. +Flora, putting aside her veil with a bashful tremor upon her, proceeded +to introduce herself. At the same time a singular combination of +perfumes was diffused through the room, as if some brandy had been put +by mistake in a lavender-water bottle, or as if some lavender-water had +been put by mistake in a brandy-bottle. + +‘I beg Mr Dorrit to offer a thousand apologies and indeed they would +be far too few for such an intrusion which I know must appear extremely +bold in a lady and alone too, but I thought it best upon the whole +however difficult and even apparently improper though Mr F.’s Aunt would +have willingly accompanied me and as a character of great force and +spirit would probably have struck one possessed of such a knowledge of +life as no doubt with so many changes must have been acquired, for Mr F. +himself said frequently that although well educated in the neighbourhood +of Blackheath at as high as eighty guineas which is a good deal for +parents and the plate kept back too on going away but that is more a +meanness than its value that he had learnt more in his first years as a +commercial traveller with a large commission on the sale of an article +that nobody would hear of much less buy which preceded the wine trade +a long time than in the whole six years in that academy conducted by a +college Bachelor, though why a Bachelor more clever than a married man I +do not see and never did but pray excuse me that is not the point.’ + +Mr Dorrit stood rooted to the carpet, a statue of mystification. + +‘I must openly admit that I have no pretensions,’ said Flora, ‘but +having known the dear little thing which under altered circumstances +appears a liberty but is not so intended and Goodness knows there was no +favour in half-a-crown a-day to such a needle as herself but quite the +other way and as to anything lowering in it far from it the labourer is +worthy of his hire and I am sure I only wish he got it oftener and more +animal food and less rheumatism in the back and legs poor soul.’ + +‘Madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his breath by a great effort, as the +relict of the late Mr Finching stopped to take hers; ‘madam,’ said Mr +Dorrit, very red in the face, ‘if I understand you to refer to--ha--to +anything in the antecedents of--hum--a daughter of mine, involving--ha +hum--daily compensation, madam, I beg to observe that the--ha--fact, +assuming it--ha--to be fact, never was within my knowledge. Hum. I +should not have permitted it. Ha. Never! Never!’ + +‘Unnecessary to pursue the subject,’ returned Flora, ‘and would not have +mentioned it on any account except as supposing it a favourable and only +letter of introduction but as to being fact no doubt whatever and you +may set your mind at rest for the very dress I have on now can prove it +and sweetly made though there is no denying that it would tell better on +a better figure for my own is much too fat though how to bring it down I +know not, pray excuse me I am roving off again.’ + +Mr Dorrit backed to his chair in a stony way, and seated himself, as +Flora gave him a softening look and played with her parasol. + +‘The dear little thing,’ said Flora, ‘having gone off perfectly limp +and white and cold in my own house or at least papa’s for though not +a freehold still a long lease at a peppercorn on the morning when +Arthur--foolish habit of our youthful days and Mr Clennam far more +adapted to existing circumstances particularly addressing a stranger and +that stranger a gentleman in an elevated station--communicated the glad +tidings imparted by a person of name of Pancks emboldens me.’ + +At the mention of these two names, Mr Dorrit frowned, stared, frowned +again, hesitated with his fingers at his lips, as he had hesitated long +ago, and said, ‘Do me the favour to--ha--state your pleasure, madam.’ + +‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Flora, ‘you are very kind in giving me permission and +highly natural it seems to me that you should be kind for though more +stately I perceive a likeness filled out of course but a likeness still, +the object of my intruding is my own without the slightest consultation +with any human being and most decidedly not with Arthur--pray excuse me +Doyce and Clennam I don’t know what I am saying Mr Clennam solus--for to +put that individual linked by a golden chain to a purple time when all +was ethereal out of any anxiety would be worth to me the ransom of a +monarch not that I have the least idea how much that would come to but +using it as the total of all I have in the world and more.’ + +Mr Dorrit, without greatly regarding the earnestness of these latter +words, repeated, ‘State your pleasure, madam.’ + +‘It’s not likely I well know,’ said Flora, ‘but it’s possible and being +possible when I had the gratification of reading in the papers that you +had arrived from Italy and were going back I made up my mind to try it +for you might come across him or hear something of him and if so what a +blessing and relief to all!’ + +‘Allow me to ask, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with his ideas in wild +confusion, ‘to whom--ha--TO WHOM,’ he repeated it with a raised voice in +mere desperation, ‘you at present allude?’ + +‘To the foreigner from Italy who disappeared in the City as no doubt you +have read in the papers equally with myself,’ said Flora, ‘not referring +to private sources by the name of Pancks from which one gathers what +dreadfully ill-natured things some people are wicked enough to whisper +most likely judging others by themselves and what the uneasiness +and indignation of Arthur--quite unable to overcome it Doyce and +Clennam--cannot fail to be.’ + +It happened, fortunately for the elucidation of any intelligible result, +that Mr Dorrit had heard or read nothing about the matter. This +caused Mrs Finching, with many apologies for being in great practical +difficulties as to finding the way to her pocket among the stripes of +her dress at length to produce a police handbill, setting forth that +a foreign gentleman of the name of Blandois, last from Venice, had +unaccountably disappeared on such a night in such a part of the city of +London; that he was known to have entered such a house, at such an hour; +that he was stated by the inmates of that house to have left it, about +so many minutes before midnight; and that he had never been beheld +since. This, with exact particulars of time and locality, and with +a good detailed description of the foreign gentleman who had so +mysteriously vanished, Mr Dorrit read at large. + +‘Blandois!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Venice! And this description! I know this +gentleman. He has been in my house. He is intimately acquainted with a +gentleman of good family (but in indifferent circumstances), of whom I +am a--hum--patron.’ + +‘Then my humble and pressing entreaty is the more,’ said Flora, ‘that +in travelling back you will have the kindness to look for this foreign +gentleman along all the roads and up and down all the turnings and to +make inquiries for him at all the hotels and orange-trees and vineyards +and volcanoes and places for he must be somewhere and why doesn’t he +come forward and say he’s there and clear all parties up?’ + +‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, referring to the handbill again, ‘who is +Clennam and Co.? Ha. I see the name mentioned here, in connection with +the occupation of the house which Monsieur Blandois was seen to +enter: who is Clennam and Co.? Is it the individual of whom I had +formerly--hum--some--ha--slight transitory knowledge, and to whom I +believe you have referred? Is it--ha--that person?’ + +‘It’s a very different person indeed,’ replied Flora, ‘with no limbs and +wheels instead and the grimmest of women though his mother.’ + +‘Clennam and Co. a--hum--a mother!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit. + +‘And an old man besides,’ said Flora. + +Mr Dorrit looked as if he must immediately be driven out of his mind +by this account. Neither was it rendered more favourable to sanity by +Flora’s dashing into a rapid analysis of Mr Flintwinch’s cravat, and +describing him, without the lightest boundary line of separation between +his identity and Mrs Clennam’s, as a rusty screw in gaiters. Which +compound of man and woman, no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and +gaiters, so completely stupefied Mr Dorrit, that he was a spectacle to +be pitied. + +‘But I would not detain you one moment longer,’ said Flora, upon whom +his condition wrought its effect, though she was quite unconscious of +having produced it, ‘if you would have the goodness to give your promise +as a gentleman that both in going back to Italy and in Italy too you +would look for this Mr Blandois high and low and if you found or heard +of him make him come forward for the clearing of all parties.’ + +By that time Mr Dorrit had so far recovered from his bewilderment, as to +be able to say, in a tolerably connected manner, that he should consider +that his duty. Flora was delighted with her success, and rose to take +her leave. + +‘With a million thanks,’ said she, ‘and my address upon my card in case +of anything to be communicated personally, I will not send my love to +the dear little thing for it might not be acceptable, and indeed there +is no dear little thing left in the transformation so why do it but +both myself and Mr F.’s Aunt ever wish her well and lay no claim to any +favour on our side you may be sure of that but quite the other way for +what she undertook to do she did and that is more than a great many of +us do, not to say anything of her doing it as well as it could be +done and I myself am one of them for I have said ever since I began to +recover the blow of Mr F’s death that I would learn the Organ of which +I am extremely fond but of which I am ashamed to say I do not yet know a +note, good evening!’ + +When Mr Dorrit, who attended her to the room-door, had had a little time +to collect his senses, he found that the interview had summoned back +discarded reminiscences which jarred with the Merdle dinner-table. +He wrote and sent off a brief note excusing himself for that day, and +ordered dinner presently in his own rooms at the hotel. He had another +reason for this. His time in London was very nearly out, and was +anticipated by engagements; his plans were made for returning; and he +thought it behoved his importance to pursue some direct inquiry into the +Blandois disappearance, and be in a condition to carry back to Mr +Henry Gowan the result of his own personal investigation. He therefore +resolved that he would take advantage of that evening’s freedom to go +down to Clennam and Co.’s, easily to be found by the direction set forth +in the handbill; and see the place, and ask a question or two there +himself. + +Having dined as plainly as the establishment and the Courier would let +him, and having taken a short sleep by the fire for his better recovery +from Mrs Finching, he set out in a hackney-cabriolet alone. The deep +bell of St Paul’s was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of +Temple Bar, headless and forlorn in these degenerate days. + +As he approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side +ways, that part of London seemed to him an uglier spot at such an hour +than he had ever supposed it to be. Many long years had passed since he +had seen it; he had never known much of it; and it wore a mysterious and +dismal aspect in his eyes. So powerfully was his imagination impressed +by it, that when his driver stopped, after having asked the way more +than once, and said to the best of his belief this was the gateway they +wanted, Mr Dorrit stood hesitating, with the coach-door in his hand, +half afraid of the dark look of the place. + +Truly, it looked as gloomy that night as even it had ever looked. Two of +the handbills were posted on the entrance wall, one on either side, and +as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows passed over them, not +unlike the shadows of fingers following the lines. A watch was evidently +kept upon the place. As Mr Dorrit paused, a man passed in from over the +way, and another man passed out from some dark corner within; and both +looked at him in passing, and both remained standing about. + +As there was only one house in the enclosure, there was no room for +uncertainty, so he went up the steps of that house and knocked. There +was a dim light in two windows on the first-floor. The door gave back +a dreary, vacant sound, as though the house were empty; but it was not, +for a light was visible, and a step was audible, almost directly. They +both came to the door, and a chain grated, and a woman with her apron +thrown over her face and head stood in the aperture. + +‘Who is it?’ said the woman. + +Mr Dorrit, much amazed by this appearance, replied that he was from +Italy, and that he wished to ask a question relative to the missing +person, whom he knew. + +‘Hi!’ cried the woman, raising a cracked voice. ‘Jeremiah!’ + +Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified +by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions +of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and +disclosed a pale affrighted face. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ said the +old man; ‘and let the gentleman in.’ + +Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and +the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. ‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, +‘you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here, +sir.’ + +Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman’s, +called from above, ‘Who is it?’ + +‘Who is it?’ returned Jeremiah. ‘More inquiries. A gentleman from +Italy.’ + +‘Bring him up here!’ + +Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning +to Mr Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs Clennam. She _will_ do as she likes. I’ll show +you the way.’ He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase; +that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the +woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former +ghastly manner. + +Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. ‘Oh!’ said she +abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. ‘You are from +Italy, sir, are you. Well?’ + +Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment +than ‘Ha--well?’ + +‘Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where +he is? I hope you have?’ + +‘So far from it, I--hum--have come to seek information.’ + +‘Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show +the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take away. Hold the +light for him to read it.’ + +Mr Flintwinch did as he was directed, and Mr Dorrit read it through, +as if he had not previously seen it; glad enough of the opportunity of +collecting his presence of mind, which the air of the house and of the +people in it had a little disturbed. While his eyes were on the paper, +he felt that the eyes of Mr Flintwinch and of Mrs Clennam were on him. +He found, when he looked up, that this sensation was not a fanciful one. + +‘Now you know as much,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘as we know, sir. Is Mr +Blandois a friend of yours?’ + +‘No--a--hum--an acquaintance,’ answered Mr Dorrit. + +‘You have no commission from him, perhaps?’ + +‘I? Ha. Certainly not.’ + +The searching look turned gradually to the floor, after taking Mr +Flintwinch’s face in its way. Mr Dorrit, discomfited by finding that +he was the questioned instead of the questioner, applied himself to the +reversal of that unexpected order of things. + +‘I am--ha--a gentleman of property, at present residing in Italy with my +family, my servants, and--hum--my rather large establishment. Being in +London for a short time on affairs connected with--ha--my estate, +and hearing of this strange disappearance, I wished to make myself +acquainted with the circumstances at first-hand, because there is--ha +hum--an English gentleman in Italy whom I shall no doubt see on my +return, who has been in habits of close and daily intimacy with Monsieur +Blandois. Mr Henry Gowan. You may know the name.’ + +‘Never heard of it.’ + +Mrs Clennam said it, and Mr Flintwinch echoed it. + +‘Wishing to--ha--make the narrative coherent and consecutive to him,’ +said Mr Dorrit, ‘may I ask--say, three questions?’ + +‘Thirty, if you choose.’ + +‘Have you known Monsieur Blandois long?’ + +‘Not a twelvemonth. Mr Flintwinch here, will refer to the books and tell +you when, and by whom at Paris he was introduced to us. If that,’ +Mrs Clennam added, ‘should be any satisfaction to you. It is poor +satisfaction to us.’ + +‘Have you seen him often?’ + +‘No. Twice. Once before, and--’ + +‘That once,’ suggested Mr Flintwinch. + +‘And that once.’ + +‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a growing fancy upon him as he +recovered his importance, that he was in some superior way in the +Commission of the Peace; ‘pray, madam, may I inquire, for the greater +satisfaction of the gentleman whom I have the honour to--ha--retain, or +protect or let me say to--hum--know--to know--Was Monsieur Blandois here +on business on the night indicated in this present sheet?’ + +‘On what he called business,’ returned Mrs Clennam. + +‘Is--ha--excuse me--is its nature to be communicated?’ + +‘No.’ + +It was evidently impracticable to pass the barrier of that reply. + +‘The question has been asked before,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and the answer +has been, No. We don’t choose to publish our transactions, however +unimportant, to all the town. We say, No.’ + +‘I mean, he took away no money with him, for example,’ said Mr Dorrit. + +‘He took away none of ours, sir, and got none here.’ + +‘I suppose,’ observed Mr Dorrit, glancing from Mrs Clennam to Mr +Flintwinch, and from Mr Flintwinch to Mrs Clennam, ‘you have no way of +accounting to yourself for this mystery?’ + +‘Why do you suppose so?’ rejoined Mrs Clennam. + +Disconcerted by the cold and hard inquiry, Mr Dorrit was unable to +assign any reason for his supposing so. + +‘I account for it, sir,’ she pursued after an awkward silence on Mr +Dorrit’s part, ‘by having no doubt that he is travelling somewhere, or +hiding somewhere.’ + +‘Do you know--ha--why he should hide anywhere?’ + +‘No.’ + +It was exactly the same No as before, and put another barrier up. + +‘You asked me if I accounted for the disappearance to myself,’ Mrs +Clennam sternly reminded him, ‘not if I accounted for it to you. I do +not pretend to account for it to you, sir. I understand it to be no more +my business to do that, than it is yours to require that.’ + +Mr Dorrit answered with an apologetic bend of his head. As he stepped +back, preparatory to saying he had no more to ask, he could not but +observe how gloomily and fixedly she sat with her eyes fastened on +the ground, and a certain air upon her of resolute waiting; also, +how exactly the self-same expression was reflected in Mr Flintwinch, +standing at a little distance from her chair, with his eyes also on the +ground, and his right hand softly rubbing his chin. + +At that moment, Mistress Affery (of course, the woman with the apron) +dropped the candlestick she held, and cried out, ‘There! O good Lord! +there it is again. Hark, Jeremiah! Now!’ + +If there were any sound at all, it was so slight that she must have +fallen into a confirmed habit of listening for sounds; but Mr Dorrit +believed he did hear a something, like the falling of dry leaves. The +woman’s terror, for a very short space, seemed to touch the three; and +they all listened. + +Mr Flintwinch was the first to stir. ‘Affery, my woman,’ said he, +sidling at her with his fists clenched, and his elbows quivering with +impatience to shake her, ‘you are at your old tricks. You’ll be walking +in your sleep next, my woman, and playing the whole round of your +distempered antics. You must have some physic. When I have shown this +gentleman out, I’ll make you up such a comfortable dose, my woman; such +a comfortable dose!’ + +It did not appear altogether comfortable in expectation to Mistress +Affery; but Jeremiah, without further reference to his healing medicine, +took another candle from Mrs Clennam’s table, and said, ‘Now, sir; shall +I light you down?’ + +Mr Dorrit professed himself obliged, and went down. Mr Flintwinch shut +him out, and chained him out, without a moment’s loss of time. +He was again passed by the two men, one going out and the other coming +in; got into the vehicle he had left waiting, and was driven away. + +Before he had gone far, the driver stopped to let him know that he +had given his name, number, and address to the two men, on their joint +requisition; and also the address at which he had taken Mr Dorrit up, +the hour at which he had been called from his stand and the way by which +he had come. This did not make the night’s adventure run any less hotly +in Mr Dorrit’s mind, either when he sat down by his fire again, or +when he went to bed. All night he haunted the dismal house, saw the two +people resolutely waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face +cry out about the noise, and found the body of the missing Blandois, now +buried in the cellar, and now bricked up in a wall. + + + + +CHAPTER 18. A Castle in the Air + + +Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit’s satisfaction in +remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself +to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any +knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped +over-night, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him +whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look +at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the +coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London +Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge--a course which would +have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all +that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some +odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle +dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he +continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully +inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to +think what the Chief Butler’s opinion of him would have been, if that +illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the +stream of his meditations. + +The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit +in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her +youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had +been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a +quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished--but without +abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of +his favourite child--that he had such another daughter. + +‘My dear,’ he told her at parting, ‘our family looks to you +to--ha--assert its dignity and--hum--maintain its importance. I know you +will never disappoint it.’ + +‘No, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘you may rely upon that, I think. My best love +to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.’ + +‘Shall I convey any message to--ha--anybody else?’ asked Mr Dorrit, in +an insinuating manner. + +‘Papa,’ said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, ‘no, I +thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There +is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at +all agreeable to you to take.’ + +They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited +on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr +Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping +in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he +had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting +Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit’s protestations being in vain, +he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this +distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the +step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during +this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage +with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had +come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of +beholding the grandeur of his departure. + +The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at +his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel +servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence, +when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. +John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his +ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle +of cigars in his hand! + +‘Now, young man,’ said the porter. ‘This is the gentleman. This young +man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.’ + +Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of +tones, ‘Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ returned Young John. + +‘I--ha--thought it was Young John!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘The young man may +come up,’ turning to the attendants, as he passed on: ‘oh yes, he may +come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.’ + +Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit’s rooms were +reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew. + +‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by +the collar when they were safely alone. ‘What do you mean by this?’ + +The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John’s face--for +he had rather expected to be embraced next--were of that powerfully +expressive nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at +him. + +‘How dare you do this?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘How do you presume to come +here? How dare you insult me?’ + +‘I insult you, sir?’ cried Young John. ‘Oh!’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit. ‘Insult me. Your coming here is an +affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here. +Who sent you here? What--ha--the Devil do you do here?’ + +‘I thought, sir,’ said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as +ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit’s in his life--even in his College +life: ‘I thought, sir, you mightn’t object to have the goodness to +accept a bundle--’ + +‘Damn your bundle, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage. +‘I--hum--don’t smoke.’ + +‘I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.’ + +‘Tell me that again,’ cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, ‘and I’ll +take the poker to you!’ + +John Chivery backed to the door. + +‘Stop, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!’ + +John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit +walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once, +he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the +glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said: + +‘What else did you come for, Sir?’ + +‘Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I +hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?’ + +‘What’s that to you, sir?’ retorted Mr Dorrit. + +‘It’s nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the +distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it’s a liberty, sir, but I never +thought you’d have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,’ said +Young John, with emotion, ‘in my poor way, I am too proud to have come, +I assure you, if I had thought so.’ + +Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his +forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his +handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and +he looked tired and ill. + +‘Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but--ha--some +remembrances are not happy remembrances, and--hum--you shouldn’t have +come.’ + +‘I feel that now, sir,’ returned John Chivery; ‘but I didn’t before, and +Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.’ + +‘No. No,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I am--hum--sure of that. Ha. Give me your +hand, Young John, give me your hand.’ + +Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and +nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look. + +‘There!’ said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. ‘Sit down again, +Young John.’ + +‘Thank you, sir--but I’d rather stand.’ + +Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little +while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy: + +‘And how is your father, Young John? How--ha--how are they all, Young +John?’ + +‘Thank you, sir, They’re all pretty well, sir. They’re not any ways +complaining.’ + +‘Hum. You are in your--ha--old business I see, John?’ said Mr Dorrit, +with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised. + +‘Partly, sir. I am in my’--John hesitated a little--‘father’s business +likewise.’ + +‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Do you--ha hum--go upon the ha--’ + +‘Lock, sir? Yes, sir.’ + +‘Much to do, John?’ + +‘Yes, sir; we’re pretty heavy at present. I don’t know how it is, but we +generally _are_ pretty heavy.’ + +‘At this time of the year, Young John?’ + +‘Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don’t know the time that makes +much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.’ + +‘Stay a moment, John--ha--stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John, +I--ha--beg.’ + +‘Certainly, sir.’ John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table. + +‘Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a--ha--a +gratification to me to send a little--hum--Testimonial, by such a trusty +messenger, to be divided among--ha hum--them--_them_--according to their +wants. Would you object to take it, John?’ + +‘Not in any ways, sir. There’s many of them, I’m sure, that would be the +better for it.’ + +‘Thank you, John. I--ha--I’ll write it, John.’ + +His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in +a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He +folded it up, put it in Young John’s hand, and pressed the hand in his. + +‘I hope you’ll--ha--overlook--hum--what has passed, John.’ + +‘Don’t speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don’t in any ways bear +malice, I’m sure.’ + +But nothing while John was there could change John’s face to its natural +colour and expression, or restore John’s natural manner. + +‘And, John,’ said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and +releasing it, ‘I hope we--ha--agree that we have spoken together +in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying +anything to any one that might--hum--suggest that--ha--once I--’ + +‘Oh! I assure you, sir,’ returned John Chivery, ‘in my poor humble way, +sir, I’m too proud and honourable to do it, sir.’ + +Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that +he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or +lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went +direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step. +After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier, +who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back +towards him and his face to the fire. ‘You can take that bundle of +cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,’ said Mr Dorrit, with +a careless wave of his hand. ‘Ha--brought by--hum--little offering +from--ha--son of old tenant of mine.’ + +Next morning’s sun saw Mr Dorrit’s equipage upon the Dover road, where +every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established +for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the +human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was +waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced +at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the +Courier’s business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the +Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went +gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to +a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next +chalky rise in the dusty highway. + +Another day’s sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel +between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find +that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England. + +On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered +his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building +as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in +hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding +a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls, +strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior, +making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so +clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple +at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in +at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the +name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well +what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it +himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a +special physiognomical treatise. + +Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled +much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and +particularly the jewellers’ windows. Ultimately, he went into the most +famous jeweller’s, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady. + +It was a charming little woman to whom he said it--a sprightly little +woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower +to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account +which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles +more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which +looked in itself like a sweetmeat. + +For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did +Monsieur desire? A love-gift? + +Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was +always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some? + +Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show +him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness +to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts. +For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to +correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these +rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with +the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts. + +Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to +purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with +the nuptial offering? + +Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her +two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that +would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with +gifts would find them irresistible. + +Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little +woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of +each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel +afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle +now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame. + +Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle +exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles. +Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling +asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the +air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What +time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young John’s best cigars, left +a little thread of thin light smoke behind--perhaps as _he_ built a +castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit’s money. + +Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as +strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit’s castle. +Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless +building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor +were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay +of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle +were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of +Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through +the filth that festered on the way. + + + + +CHAPTER 19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air + + +The sun had gone down full four hours, and it was later than most +travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls +of Rome, when Mr Dorrit’s carriage, still on its last wearisome +stage, rattled over the solitary Campagna. The savage herdsmen and +the fierce-looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light +lasted, had all gone down with the sun, and left the wilderness +blank. At some turns of the road, a pale flare on the horizon, like an +exhalation from the ruin-sown land, showed that the city was yet far +off; but this poor relief was rare and short-lived. The carriage dipped +down again into a hollow of the black dry sea, and for a long time there +was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky. + +Mr Dorrit, though he had his castle-building to engage his mind, could +not be quite easy in that desolate place. He was far more curious, in +every swerve of the carriage, and every cry of the postilions, than he +had been since he quitted London. The valet on the box evidently quaked. +The Courier in the rumble was not altogether comfortable in his mind. As +often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him (which was +very often), he saw him smoking John Chivery out, it is true, but still +generally standing up the while and looking about him, like a man who +had his suspicions, and kept upon his guard. Then would Mr Dorrit, +pulling up the glass again, reflect that those postilions were +cut-throat looking fellows, and that he would have done better to have +slept at Civita Vecchia, and have started betimes in the morning. But, +for all this, he worked at his castle in the intervals. + +And now, fragments of ruinous enclosure, yawning window-gap and crazy +wall, deserted houses, leaking wells, broken water-tanks, spectral +cypress-trees, patches of tangled vine, and the changing of the track to +a long, irregular, disordered lane where everything was crumbling away, +from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road--now, these objects +showed that they were nearing Rome. And now, a sudden twist and stoppage +of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand +moment was come for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him; until, +letting down the glass again and looking out, he perceived himself +assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which came +mechanically chaunting by, with an indistinct show of dirty vestments, +lurid torches, swinging censers, and a great cross borne before a +priest. He was an ugly priest by torchlight; of a lowering aspect, with +an overhanging brow; and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit, looking +bareheaded out of the carriage, his lips, moving as they chaunted, +seemed to threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of +his hand, which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller’s +salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr Dorrit, +made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling, as the priest +drifted past him, and the procession straggled away, taking its dead +along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr Dorrit’s company too; +and soon, with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals +of Europe, they were (like the Goths reversed) beating at the gates of +Rome. + +Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had been; +but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that it was +later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus, when his +equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter appeared to +receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked. No. She was within. +Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants; let them keep where +they were; let them help to unload the carriage; he would find Miss +Dorrit for himself. + +So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and tired, and looked into +various chambers which were empty, until he saw a light in a small +ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, within two other rooms; +and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he approached it through the +dark avenue they made. + +There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here, looking +in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For why like +jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother there: he, with +his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood +fire; she seated at a little table, busied with some embroidery work. +Allowing for the great difference in the still-life of the picture, the +figures were much the same as of old; his brother being sufficiently +like himself to represent himself, for a moment, in the composition. +So had he sat many a night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat, +devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old +miserable poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart? + +‘Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?’ + +Her uncle shook his head and said, ‘Since when, my dear; since when?’ + +‘I think,’ returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, ‘that you have +been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and so ready, +and so interested.’ + +‘My dear child--all you.’ + +‘All me, uncle!’ + +‘Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so +considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying to +hide your attentions from me, that I--well, well, well! It’s treasured +up, my darling, treasured up.’ + +‘There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy, uncle,’ said Little +Dorrit, cheerfully. + +‘Well, well, well!’ murmured the old man. ‘Thank God!’ + +She paused for an instant in her work to look at him, and her look +revived that former pain in her father’s breast; in his poor weak +breast, so full of contradictions, vacillations, inconsistencies, the +little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life, mists which the +morning without a night only can clear away. + +‘I have been freer with you, you see, my dove,’ said the old man, ‘since +we have been alone. I say, alone, for I don’t count Mrs General; I +don’t care for her; she has nothing to do with me. But I know Fanny was +impatient of me. And I don’t wonder at it, or complain of it, for I am +sensible that I must be in the way, though I try to keep out of it as +well as I can. I know I am not fit company for our company. My brother +William,’ said the old man admiringly, ‘is fit company for monarchs; +but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit is no credit to William +Dorrit, and he knows it quite well. Ah! Why, here’s your father, Amy! +My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I am rejoiced to see +you!’ + +(Turning his head in speaking, he had caught sight of him as he stood in +the doorway.) + +Little Dorrit with a cry of pleasure put her arms about her father’s +neck, and kissed him again and again. Her father was a little impatient, +and a little querulous. ‘I am glad to find you at last, Amy,’ he said. +‘Ha. Really I am glad to find--hum--any one to receive me at last. +I appear to have been--ha--so little expected, that upon my word +I began--ha hum--to think it might be right to offer an apology +for--ha--taking the liberty of coming back at all.’ + +‘It was so late, my dear William,’ said his brother, ‘that we had given +you up for to-night.’ + +‘I am stronger than you, dear Frederick,’ returned his brother with an +elaboration of fraternity in which there was severity; ‘and I hope I can +travel without detriment at--ha--any hour I choose.’ + +‘Surely, surely,’ returned the other, with a misgiving that he had given +offence. ‘Surely, William.’ + +‘Thank you, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, as she helped him to put off his +wrappers. ‘I can do it without assistance. I--ha--need not trouble you, +Amy. Could I have a morsel of bread and a glass of wine, or--hum--would +it cause too much inconvenience?’ + +‘Dear father, you shall have supper in a very few minutes.’ + +‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a reproachful frost upon him; +‘I--ha--am afraid I am causing inconvenience. Hum. Mrs General pretty +well?’ + +‘Mrs General complained of a headache, and of being fatigued; and so, +when we gave you up, she went to bed, dear.’ + +Perhaps Mr Dorrit thought that Mrs General had done well in being +overcome by the disappointment of his not arriving. At any rate, his +face relaxed, and he said with obvious satisfaction, ‘Extremely sorry to +hear that Mrs General is not well.’ + +During this short dialogue, his daughter had been observant of him, with +something more than her usual interest. It would seem as though he had +a changed or worn appearance in her eyes, and he perceived and resented +it; for he said with renewed peevishness, when he had divested himself +of his travelling-cloak, and had come to the fire: + +‘Amy, what are you looking at? What do you see in me that causes you +to--ha--concentrate your solicitude on me in that--hum--very particular +manner?’ + +‘I did not know it, father; I beg your pardon. It gladdens my eyes to +see you again; that’s all.’ + +‘Don’t say that’s all, because--ha--that’s not all. You--hum--you +think,’ said Mr Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, ‘that I am not +looking well.’ + +‘I thought you looked a little tired, love.’ + +‘Then you are mistaken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha, I am _not_ tired. Ha, hum. I +am very much fresher than I was when I went away.’ + +He was so inclined to be angry that she said nothing more in her +justification, but remained quietly beside him embracing his arm. As +he stood thus, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a heavy +doze, of not a minute’s duration, and awoke with a start. + +‘Frederick,’ he said, turning to his brother: ‘I recommend you to go to +bed immediately.’ + +‘No, William. I’ll wait and see you sup.’ + +‘Frederick,’ he retorted, ‘I beg you to go to bed. I--ha--make it a +personal request that you go to bed. You ought to have been in bed long +ago. You are very feeble.’ + +‘Hah!’ said the old man, who had no wish but to please him. ‘Well, well, +well! I dare say I am.’ + +‘My dear Frederick,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with an astonishing superiority +to his brother’s failing powers, ‘there can be no doubt of it. It is +painful to me to see you so weak. Ha. It distresses me. Hum. I don’t +find you looking at all well. You are not fit for this sort of thing. +You should be more careful, you should be very careful.’ + +‘Shall I go to bed?’ asked Frederick. + +‘Dear Frederick,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘do, I adjure you! Good night, +brother. I hope you will be stronger to-morrow. I am not at all pleased +with your looks. Good night, dear fellow.’ After dismissing his brother +in this gracious way, he fell into a doze again before the old man was +well out of the room: and he would have stumbled forward upon the logs, +but for his daughter’s restraining hold. + +‘Your uncle wanders very much, Amy,’ he said, when he was thus roused. +‘He is less--ha--coherent, and his conversation is more--hum--broken, +than I have--ha, hum--ever known. Has he had any illness since I have +been gone?’ + +‘No, father.’ + +‘You--ha--see a great change in him, Amy?’ + +‘I have not observed it, dear.’ + +‘Greatly broken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Greatly broken. My poor, +affectionate, failing Frederick! Ha. Even taking into account what he +was before, he is--hum--sadly broken!’ + +His supper, which was brought to him there, and spread upon the little +table where he had seen her working, diverted his attention. She sat at +his side as in the days that were gone, for the first time since those +days ended. They were alone, and she helped him to his meat and poured +out his drink for him, as she had been used to do in the prison. All +this happened now, for the first time since their accession to wealth. +She was afraid to look at him much, after the offence he had taken; but +she noticed two occasions in the course of his meal, when he all of a +sudden looked at her, and looked about him, as if the association were +so strong that he needed assurance from his sense of sight that they +were not in the old prison-room. Both times, he put his hand to his head +as if he missed his old black cap--though it had been ignominiously +given away in the Marshalsea, and had never got free to that hour, but +still hovered about the yards on the head of his successor. + +He took very little supper, but was a long time over it, and often +reverted to his brother’s declining state. Though he expressed the +greatest pity for him, he was almost bitter upon him. He said that poor +Frederick--ha hum--drivelled. There was no other word to express it; +drivelled. Poor fellow! It was melancholy to reflect what Amy must have +undergone from the excessive tediousness of his Society--wandering and +babbling on, poor dear estimable creature, wandering and babbling on--if +it had not been for the relief she had had in Mrs General. +Extremely sorry, he then repeated with his former satisfaction, that +that--ha--superior woman was poorly. + +Little Dorrit, in her watchful love, would have remembered the lightest +thing he said or did that night, though she had had no subsequent reason +to recall that night. She always remembered that, when he looked about +him under the strong influence of the old association, he tried to +keep it out of her mind, and perhaps out of his own too, by immediately +expatiating on the great riches and great company that had encompassed +him in his absence, and on the lofty position he and his family had to +sustain. Nor did she fail to recall that there were two under-currents, +side by side, pervading all his discourse and all his manner; one +showing her how well he had got on without her, and how independent +he was of her; the other, in a fitful and unintelligible way almost +complaining of her, as if it had been possible that she had neglected +him while he was away. + +His telling her of the glorious state that Mr Merdle kept, and of the +court that bowed before him, naturally brought him to Mrs Merdle. So +naturally indeed, that although there was an unusual want of sequence in +the greater part of his remarks, he passed to her at once, and asked how +she was. + +‘She is very well. She is going away next week.’ + +‘Home?’ asked Mr Dorrit. + +‘After a few weeks’ stay upon the road.’ + +‘She will be a vast loss here,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘A vast--ha--acquisition +at home. To Fanny, and to--hum--the rest of the--ha--great world.’ + +Little Dorrit thought of the competition that was to be entered upon, +and assented very softly. + +‘Mrs Merdle is going to have a great farewell Assembly, dear, and a +dinner before it. She has been expressing her anxiety that you should +return in time. She has invited both you and me to her dinner.’ + +‘She is--ha--very kind. When is the day?’ + +‘The day after to-morrow.’ + +‘Write round in the morning, and say that I have returned, and +shall--hum--be delighted.’ + +‘May I walk with you up the stairs to your room, dear?’ + +‘No!’ he answered, looking angrily round; for he was moving away, as if +forgetful of leave-taking. ‘You may not, Amy. I want no help. I am your +father, not your infirm uncle!’ He checked himself, as abruptly as he +had broken into this reply, and said, ‘You have not kissed me, Amy. Good +night, my dear! We must marry--ha--we must marry _you_, now.’ With that +he went, more slowly and more tired, up the staircase to his rooms, and, +almost as soon as he got there, dismissed his valet. His next care was +to look about him for his Paris purchases, and, after opening their +cases and carefully surveying them, to put them away under lock and +key. After that, what with dozing and what with castle-building, he lost +himself for a long time, so that there was a touch of morning on the +eastward rim of the desolate Campagna when he crept to bed. + +Mrs General sent up her compliments in good time next day, and hoped +he had rested well after this fatiguing journey. He sent down his +compliments, and begged to inform Mrs General that he had rested very +well indeed, and was in high condition. Nevertheless, he did not come +forth from his own rooms until late in the afternoon; and, although he +then caused himself to be magnificently arrayed for a drive with +Mrs General and his daughter, his appearance was scarcely up to his +description of himself. + +As the family had no visitors that day, its four members dined alone +together. He conducted Mrs General to the seat at his right hand with +immense ceremony; and Little Dorrit could not but notice as she followed +with her uncle, both that he was again elaborately dressed, and that his +manner towards Mrs General was very particular. The perfect formation of +that accomplished lady’s surface rendered it difficult to displace an +atom of its genteel glaze, but Little Dorrit thought she descried a +slight thaw of triumph in a corner of her frosty eye. + +Notwithstanding what may be called in these pages the Pruney and +Prismatic nature of the family banquet, Mr Dorrit several times fell +asleep while it was in progress. His fits of dozing were as sudden as +they had been overnight, and were as short and profound. When the first +of these slumberings seized him, Mrs General looked almost amazed: but, +on each recurrence of the symptoms, she told her polite beads, Papa, +Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes, and Prism; and, by dint of going through that +infallible performance very slowly, appeared to finish her rosary at +about the same time as Mr Dorrit started from his sleep. + +He was again painfully aware of a somnolent tendency in Frederick (which +had no existence out of his own imagination), and after dinner, when +Frederick had withdrawn, privately apologised to Mrs General for the +poor man. ‘The most estimable and affectionate of brothers,’ he said, +‘but--ha, hum--broken up altogether. Unhappily, declining fast.’ + +‘Mr Frederick, sir,’ quoth Mrs General, ‘is habitually absent and +drooping, but let us hope it is not so bad as that.’ + +Mr Dorrit, however, was determined not to let him off. ‘Fast declining, +madam. A wreck. A ruin. Mouldering away before our eyes. Hum. Good +Frederick!’ + +‘You left Mrs Sparkler quite well and happy, I trust?’ said Mrs General, +after heaving a cool sigh for Frederick. + +‘Surrounded,’ replied Mr Dorrit, ‘by--ha--all that can charm the taste, +and--hum--elevate the mind. Happy, my dear madam, in a--hum--husband.’ + +Mrs General was a little fluttered; seeming delicately to put the word +away with her gloves, as if there were no knowing what it might lead to. + +‘Fanny,’ Mr Dorrit continued. ‘Fanny, Mrs General, has high +qualities. Ha. Ambition--hum--purpose, consciousness of--ha--position, +determination to support that position--ha, hum--grace, beauty, and +native nobility.’ + +‘No doubt,’ said Mrs General (with a little extra stiffness). + +‘Combined with these qualities, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘Fanny +has--ha--manifested one blemish which has made me--hum--made me uneasy, +and--ha--I must add, angry; but which I trust may now be considered +at an end, even as to herself, and which is undoubtedly at an end as +to--ha--others.’ + +‘To what, Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloves again +somewhat excited, ‘can you allude? I am at a loss to--’ + +‘Do not say that, my dear madam,’ interrupted Mr Dorrit. + +Mrs General’s voice, as it died away, pronounced the words, ‘at a loss +to imagine.’ + +After which Mr Dorrit was seized with a doze for about a minute, out of +which he sprang with spasmodic nimbleness. + +‘I refer, Mrs General, to that--ha--strong spirit of opposition, +or--hum--I might say--ha--jealousy in Fanny, which has occasionally +risen against the--ha--sense I entertain of--hum--the claims of--ha--the +lady with whom I have now the honour of communing.’ + +‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘is ever but too obliging, ever but +too appreciative. If there have been moments when I have imagined that +Miss Dorrit has indeed resented the favourable opinion Mr Dorrit has +formed of my services, I have found, in that only too high opinion, my +consolation and recompense.’ + +‘Opinion of your services, madam?’ said Mr Dorrit. + +‘Of,’ Mrs General repeated, in an elegantly impressive manner, ‘my +services.’ + +‘Of your services alone, dear madam?’ said Mr Dorrit. + +‘I presume,’ retorted Mrs General, in her former impressive manner, ‘of +my services alone. For, to what else,’ said Mrs General, with a slightly +interrogative action of her gloves, ‘could I impute--’ + +‘To--ha--yourself, Mrs General. Ha, hum. To yourself and your merits,’ +was Mr Dorrit’s rejoinder. + +‘Mr Dorrit will pardon me,’ said Mrs General, ‘if I remark that this +is not a time or place for the pursuit of the present conversation. +Mr Dorrit will excuse me if I remind him that Miss Dorrit is in the +adjoining room, and is visible to myself while I utter her name. Mr +Dorrit will forgive me if I observe that I am agitated, and that I find +there are moments when weaknesses I supposed myself to have subdued, +return with redoubled power. Mr Dorrit will allow me to withdraw.’ + +‘Hum. Perhaps we may resume this--ha--interesting conversation,’ said +Mr Dorrit, ‘at another time; unless it should be, what I hope it is +not--hum--in any way disagreeable to--ah--Mrs General.’ + +‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs General, casting down her eyes as she rose with a +bend, ‘must ever claim my homage and obedience.’ + +Mrs General then took herself off in a stately way, and not with that +amount of trepidation upon her which might have been expected in a less +remarkable woman. Mr Dorrit, who had conducted his part of the dialogue +with a certain majestic and admiring condescension--much as some people +may be seen to conduct themselves in Church, and to perform their part +in the service--appeared, on the whole, very well satisfied with himself +and with Mrs General too. On the return of that lady to tea, she had +touched herself up with a little powder and pomatum, and was not without +moral enchantment likewise: the latter showing itself in much sweet +patronage of manner towards Miss Dorrit, and in an air of as tender +interest in Mr Dorrit as was consistent with rigid propriety. At the +close of the evening, when she rose to retire, Mr Dorrit took her by the +hand as if he were going to lead her out into the Piazza of the people +to walk a minuet by moonlight, and with great solemnity conducted her to +the room door, where he raised her knuckles to his lips. Having parted +from her with what may be conjectured to have been a rather bony kiss of +a cosmetic flavour, he gave his daughter his blessing, graciously. And +having thus hinted that there was something remarkable in the wind, he +again went to bed. + +He remained in the seclusion of his own chamber next morning; but, early +in the afternoon, sent down his best compliments to Mrs General, by Mr +Tinkler, and begged she would accompany Miss Dorrit on an airing +without him. His daughter was dressed for Mrs Merdle’s dinner before he +appeared. He then presented himself in a refulgent condition as to his +attire, but looking indefinably shrunken and old. However, as he was +plainly determined to be angry with her if she so much as asked him how +he was, she only ventured to kiss his cheek, before accompanying him to +Mrs Merdle’s with an anxious heart. + +The distance that they had to go was very short, but he was at his +building work again before the carriage had half traversed it. Mrs +Merdle received him with great distinction; the bosom was in admirable +preservation, and on the best terms with itself; the dinner was very +choice; and the company was very select. + +It was principally English; saving that it comprised the usual French +Count and the usual Italian Marchese--decorative social milestones, +always to be found in certain places, and varying very little in +appearance. The table was long, and the dinner was long; and Little +Dorrit, overshadowed by a large pair of black whiskers and a large white +cravat, lost sight of her father altogether, until a servant put a scrap +of paper in her hand, with a whispered request from Mrs Merdle that she +would read it directly. Mrs Merdle had written on it in pencil, ‘Pray +come and speak to Mr Dorrit, I doubt if he is well.’ + +She was hurrying to him, unobserved, when he got up out of his chair, +and leaning over the table called to her, supposing her to be still in +her place: + +‘Amy, Amy, my child!’ + +The action was so unusual, to say nothing of his strange eager +appearance and strange eager voice, that it instantaneously caused a +profound silence. + +‘Amy, my dear,’ he repeated. ‘Will you go and see if Bob is on the +lock?’ + +She was at his side, and touching him, but he still perversely supposed +her to be in her seat, and called out, still leaning over the table, +‘Amy, Amy. I don’t feel quite myself. Ha. I don’t know what’s the matter +with me. I particularly wish to see Bob. Ha. Of all the turnkeys, he’s +as much my friend as yours. See if Bob is in the lodge, and beg him to +come to me.’ + +All the guests were now in consternation, and everybody rose. + +‘Dear father, I am not there; I am here, by you.’ + +‘Oh! You are here, Amy! Good. Hum. Good. Ha. Call Bob. If he has been +relieved, and is not on the lock, tell Mrs Bangham to go and fetch him.’ + +She was gently trying to get him away; but he resisted, and would not +go. + +‘I tell you, child,’ he said petulantly, ‘I can’t be got up the narrow +stairs without Bob. Ha. Send for Bob. Hum. Send for Bob--best of all the +turnkeys--send for Bob!’ + +He looked confusedly about him, and, becoming conscious of the number of +faces by which he was surrounded, addressed them: + +‘Ladies and gentlemen, the duty--ha--devolves upon me of--hum--welcoming +you to the Marshalsea! Welcome to the Marshalsea! The space +is--ha--limited--limited--the parade might be wider; but you will +find it apparently grow larger after a time--a time, ladies and +gentlemen--and the air is, all things considered, very good. It blows +over the--ha--Surrey hills. Blows over the Surrey hills. This is the +Snuggery. Hum. Supported by a small subscription of the--ha--Collegiate +body. In return for which--hot water--general kitchen--and little +domestic advantages. Those who are habituated to the--ha--Marshalsea, +are pleased to call me its father. I am accustomed to be complimented by +strangers as the--ha--Father of the Marshalsea. Certainly, if years of +residence may establish a claim to so--ha--honourable a title, I may +accept the--hum--conferred distinction. My child, ladies and gentlemen. +My daughter. Born here!’ + +She was not ashamed of it, or ashamed of him. She was pale and +frightened; but she had no other care than to soothe him and get him +away, for his own dear sake. She was between him and the wondering +faces, turned round upon his breast with her own face raised to his. He +held her clasped in his left arm, and between whiles her low voice was +heard tenderly imploring him to go away with her. + +‘Born here,’ he repeated, shedding tears. ‘Bred here. Ladies and +gentlemen, my daughter. Child of an unfortunate father, but--ha--always +a gentleman. Poor, no doubt, but--hum--proud. Always proud. It +has become a--hum--not infrequent custom for my--ha--personal +admirers--personal admirers solely--to be pleased to express +their desire to acknowledge my semi-official position here, +by offering--ha--little tributes, which usually take the form +of--ha--voluntary recognitions of my humble endeavours to--hum--to +uphold a Tone here--a Tone--I beg it to be understood that I do not +consider myself compromised. Ha. Not compromised. Ha. Not a beggar. No; +I repudiate the title! At the same time far be it from me to--hum--to +put upon the fine feelings by which my partial friends are actuated, +the slight of scrupling to admit that those offerings are--hum--highly +acceptable. On the contrary, they are most acceptable. In my child’s +name, if not in my own, I make the admission in the fullest manner, at +the same time reserving--ha--shall I say my personal dignity? Ladies and +gentlemen, God bless you all!’ + +By this time, the exceeding mortification undergone by the Bosom had +occasioned the withdrawal of the greater part of the company into other +rooms. The few who had lingered thus long followed the rest, and Little +Dorrit and her father were left to the servants and themselves. Dearest +and most precious to her, he would come with her now, would he not? He +replied to her fervid entreaties, that he would never be able to get up +the narrow stairs without Bob; where was Bob, would nobody fetch Bob? +Under pretence of looking for Bob, she got him out against the stream of +gay company now pouring in for the evening assembly, and got him into a +coach that had just set down its load, and got him home. + +The broad stairs of his Roman palace were contracted in his failing +sight to the narrow stairs of his London prison; and he would suffer no +one but her to touch him, his brother excepted. They got him up to his +room without help, and laid him down on his bed. And from that hour his +poor maimed spirit, only remembering the place where it had broken its +wings, cancelled the dream through which it had since groped, and knew +of nothing beyond the Marshalsea. When he heard footsteps in the street, +he took them for the old weary tread in the yards. When the hour came +for locking up, he supposed all strangers to be excluded for the night. +When the time for opening came again, he was so anxious to see Bob, that +they were fain to patch up a narrative how that Bob--many a year dead +then, gentle turnkey--had taken cold, but hoped to be out to-morrow, or +the next day, or the next at furthest. + +He fell away into a weakness so extreme that he could not raise his +hand. But he still protected his brother according to his long usage; +and would say with some complacency, fifty times a day, when he saw him +standing by his bed, ‘My good Frederick, sit down. You are very feeble +indeed.’ + +They tried him with Mrs General, but he had not the faintest knowledge +of her. Some injurious suspicion lodged itself in his brain, that she +wanted to supplant Mrs Bangham, and that she was given to drinking. He +charged her with it in no measured terms; and was so urgent with his +daughter to go round to the Marshal and entreat him to turn her out, +that she was never reproduced after the first failure. + +Saving that he once asked ‘if Tip had gone outside?’ the remembrance of +his two children not present seemed to have departed from him. But the +child who had done so much for him and had been so poorly repaid, was +never out of his mind. Not that he spared her, or was fearful of her +being spent by watching and fatigue; he was not more troubled on that +score than he had usually been. No; he loved her in his old way. They +were in the jail again, and she tended him, and he had constant need of +her, and could not turn without her; and he even told her, sometimes, +that he was content to have undergone a great deal for her sake. As to +her, she bent over his bed with her quiet face against his, and would +have laid down her own life to restore him. + +When he had been sinking in this painless way for two or three days, she +observed him to be troubled by the ticking of his watch--a pompous gold +watch that made as great a to-do about its going as if nothing else +went but itself and Time. She suffered it to run down; but he was still +uneasy, and showed that was not what he wanted. At length he roused +himself to explain that he wanted money to be raised on this watch. He +was quite pleased when she pretended to take it away for the purpose, +and afterwards had a relish for his little tastes of wine and jelly, +that he had not had before. + +He soon made it plain that this was so; for, in another day or two +he sent off his sleeve-buttons and finger-rings. He had an amazing +satisfaction in entrusting her with these errands, and appeared to +consider it equivalent to making the most methodical and provident +arrangements. After his trinkets, or such of them as he had been able to +see about him, were gone, his clothes engaged his attention; and it +is as likely as not that he was kept alive for some days by the +satisfaction of sending them, piece by piece, to an imaginary +pawnbroker’s. + +Thus for ten days Little Dorrit bent over his pillow, laying her cheek +against his. Sometimes she was so worn out that for a few minutes +they would slumber together. Then she would awake; to recollect with +fast-flowing silent tears what it was that touched her face, and to see, +stealing over the cherished face upon the pillow, a deeper shadow than +the shadow of the Marshalsea Wall. + +Quietly, quietly, all the lines of the plan of the great Castle +melted one after another. Quietly, quietly, the ruled and cross-ruled +countenance on which they were traced, became fair and blank. +Quietly, quietly, the reflected marks of the prison bars and of the +zig-zag iron on the wall-top, faded away. Quietly, quietly, the face +subsided into a far younger likeness of her own than she had ever seen +under the grey hair, and sank to rest. + +At first her uncle was stark distracted. ‘O my brother! O William, +William! You to go before me; you to go alone; you to go, and I to +remain! You, so far superior, so distinguished, so noble; I, a poor +useless creature fit for nothing, and whom no one would have missed!’ + +It did her, for the time, the good of having him to think of and to +succour. + +‘Uncle, dear uncle, spare yourself, spare me!’ + +The old man was not deaf to the last words. When he did begin to +restrain himself, it was that he might spare her. He had no care for +himself; but, with all the remaining power of the honest heart, stunned +so long and now awaking to be broken, he honoured and blessed her. + +‘O God,’ he cried, before they left the room, with his wrinkled hands +clasped over her. ‘Thou seest this daughter of my dear dead brother! All +that I have looked upon, with my half-blind and sinful eyes, Thou hast +discerned clearly, brightly. Not a hair of her head shall be harmed +before Thee. Thou wilt uphold her here to her last hour. And I know Thou +wilt reward her hereafter!’ + +They remained in a dim room near, until it was almost midnight, quiet +and sad together. At times his grief would seek relief in a burst like +that in which it had found its earliest expression; but, besides that +his little strength would soon have been unequal to such strains, he +never failed to recall her words, and to reproach himself and calm +himself. The only utterance with which he indulged his sorrow, was the +frequent exclamation that his brother was gone, alone; that they had +been together in the outset of their lives, that they had fallen into +misfortune together, that they had kept together through their many +years of poverty, that they had remained together to that day; and that +his brother was gone alone, alone! + +They parted, heavy and sorrowful. She would not consent to leave him +anywhere but in his own room, and she saw him lie down in his clothes +upon his bed, and covered him with her own hands. Then she sank upon her +own bed, and fell into a deep sleep: the sleep of exhaustion and +rest, though not of complete release from a pervading consciousness of +affliction. Sleep, good Little Dorrit. Sleep through the night! + +It was a moonlight night; but the moon rose late, being long past the +full. When it was high in the peaceful firmament, it shone through +half-closed lattice blinds into the solemn room where the stumblings and +wanderings of a life had so lately ended. Two quiet figures were within +the room; two figures, equally still and impassive, equally removed +by an untraversable distance from the teeming earth and all that it +contains, though soon to lie in it. + +One figure reposed upon the bed. The other, kneeling on the floor, +drooped over it; the arms easily and peacefully resting on the coverlet; +the face bowed down, so that the lips touched the hand over which with +its last breath it had bent. The two brothers were before their Father; +far beyond the twilight judgment of this world; high above its mists and +obscurities. + + + + +CHAPTER 20. Introduces the next + + +The passengers were landing from the packet on the pier at Calais. +A low-lying place and a low-spirited place Calais was, with the tide +ebbing out towards low water-mark. There had been no more water on the +bar than had sufficed to float the packet in; and now the bar itself, +with a shallow break of sea over it, looked like a lazy marine monster +just risen to the surface, whose form was indistinctly shown as it lay +asleep. The meagre lighthouse all in white, haunting the seaboard as if +it were the ghost of an edifice that had once had colour and rotundity, +dropped melancholy tears after its late buffeting by the waves. The long +rows of gaunt black piles, slimy and wet and weather-worn, with funeral +garlands of seaweed twisted about them by the late tide, might +have represented an unsightly marine cemetery. Every wave-dashed, +storm-beaten object, was so low and so little, under the broad grey sky, +in the noise of the wind and sea, and before the curling lines of surf, +making at it ferociously, that the wonder was there was any Calais left, +and that its low gates and low wall and low roofs and low ditches and +low sand-hills and low ramparts and flat streets, had not yielded +long ago to the undermining and besieging sea, like the fortifications +children make on the sea-shore. + +After slipping among oozy piles and planks, stumbling up wet steps and +encountering many salt difficulties, the passengers entered on their +comfortless peregrination along the pier; where all the French vagabonds +and English outlaws in the town (half the population) attended to +prevent their recovery from bewilderment. After being minutely inspected +by all the English, and claimed and reclaimed and counter-claimed as +prizes by all the French in a hand-to-hand scuffle three quarters of a +mile long, they were at last free to enter the streets, and to make off +in their various directions, hotly pursued. + +Clennam, harassed by more anxieties than one, was among this devoted +band. Having rescued the most defenceless of his compatriots from +situations of great extremity, he now went his way alone, or as nearly +alone as he could be, with a native gentleman in a suit of grease and +a cap of the same material, giving chase at a distance of some fifty +yards, and continually calling after him, ‘Hi! Ice-say! You! Seer! +Ice-say! Nice Oatel!’ + +Even this hospitable person, however, was left behind at last, and +Clennam pursued his way, unmolested. There was a tranquil air in the +town after the turbulence of the Channel and the beach, and its dulness +in that comparison was agreeable. He met new groups of his countrymen, +who had all a straggling air of having at one time overblown themselves, +like certain uncomfortable kinds of flowers, and of being now mere +weeds. They had all an air, too, of lounging out a limited round, day +after day, which strongly reminded him of the Marshalsea. But, taking +no further note of them than was sufficient to give birth to the +reflection, he sought out a certain street and number which he kept in +his mind. + +‘So Pancks said,’ he murmured to himself, as he stopped before a dull +house answering to the address. ‘I suppose his information to be correct +and his discovery, among Mr Casby’s loose papers, indisputable; but, +without it, I should hardly have supposed this to be a likely place.’ + +A dead sort of house, with a dead wall over the way and a dead gateway +at the side, where a pendant bell-handle produced two dead tinkles, and +a knocker produced a dead, flat, surface-tapping, that seemed not to +have depth enough in it to penetrate even the cracked door. However, the +door jarred open on a dead sort of spring; and he closed it behind him +as he entered a dull yard, soon brought to a close by another dead wall, +where an attempt had been made to train some creeping shrubs, which were +dead; and to make a little fountain in a grotto, which was dry; and to +decorate that with a little statue, which was gone. + +The entry to the house was on the left, and it was garnished as the +outer gateway was, with two printed bills in French and English, +announcing Furnished Apartments to let, with immediate possession. A +strong cheerful peasant woman, all stocking, petticoat, white cap, and +ear-ring, stood here in a dark doorway, and said with a pleasant show of +teeth, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’ + +Clennam, replying in French, said the English lady; he wished to see +the English lady. ‘Enter then and ascend, if you please,’ returned the +peasant woman, in French likewise. He did both, and followed her up a +dark bare staircase to a back room on the first-floor. Hence, there was +a gloomy view of the yard that was dull, and of the shrubs that were +dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the pedestal of the +statue that was gone. + +‘Monsieur Blandois,’ said Clennam. + +‘With pleasure, Monsieur.’ + +Thereupon the woman withdrew and left him to look at the room. It was +the pattern of room always to be found in such a house. Cool, dull, and +dark. Waxed floor very slippery. A room not large enough to skate in; +nor adapted to the easy pursuit of any other occupation. Red and +white curtained windows, little straw mat, little round table with a +tumultuous assemblage of legs underneath, clumsy rush-bottomed chairs, +two great red velvet arm-chairs affording plenty of space to be +uncomfortable in, bureau, chimney-glass in several pieces pretending to +be in one piece, pair of gaudy vases of very artificial flowers; between +them a Greek warrior with his helmet off, sacrificing a clock to the +Genius of France. + +After some pause, a door of communication with another room was opened, +and a lady entered. She manifested great surprise on seeing Clennam, and +her glance went round the room in search of some one else. + +‘Pardon me, Miss Wade. I am alone.’ + +‘It was not your name that was brought to me.’ + +‘No; I know that. Excuse me. I have already had experience that my name +does not predispose you to an interview; and I ventured to mention the +name of one I am in search of.’ + +‘Pray,’ she returned, motioning him to a chair so coldly that he +remained standing, ‘what name was it that you gave?’ + +‘I mentioned the name of Blandois.’ + +‘Blandois?’ + +‘A name you are acquainted with.’ + +‘It is strange,’ she said, frowning, ‘that you should still press an +undesired interest in me and my acquaintances, in me and my affairs, Mr +Clennam. I don’t know what you mean.’ + +‘Pardon me. You know the name?’ + +‘What can you have to do with the name? What can I have to do with the +name? What can you have to do with my knowing or not knowing any name? +I know many names and I have forgotten many more. This may be in the +one class, or it may be in the other, or I may never have heard it. I am +acquainted with no reason for examining myself, or for being examined, +about it.’ + +‘If you will allow me,’ said Clennam, ‘I will tell you my reason for +pressing the subject. I admit that I do press it, and I must beg you to +forgive me if I do so, very earnestly. The reason is all mine, I do not +insinuate that it is in any way yours.’ + +‘Well, sir,’ she returned, repeating a little less haughtily than before +her former invitation to him to be seated: to which he now deferred, as +she seated herself. ‘I am at least glad to know that this is not another +bondswoman of some friend of yours, who is bereft of free choice, and +whom I have spirited away. I will hear your reason, if you please.’ + +‘First, to identify the person of whom we speak,’ said Clennam, ‘let me +observe that it is the person you met in London some time back. You will +remember meeting him near the river--in the Adelphi!’ + +‘You mix yourself most unaccountably with my business,’ she replied, +looking full at him with stern displeasure. ‘How do you know that?’ + +‘I entreat you not to take it ill. By mere accident.’ + +‘What accident?’ + +‘Solely the accident of coming upon you in the street and seeing the +meeting.’ + +‘Do you speak of yourself, or of some one else?’ + +‘Of myself. I saw it.’ + +‘To be sure it was in the open street,’ she observed, after a few +moments of less and less angry reflection. ‘Fifty people might have seen +it. It would have signified nothing if they had.’ + +‘Nor do I make my having seen it of any moment, nor (otherwise than as +an explanation of my coming here) do I connect my visit with it or the +favour that I have to ask.’ + +‘Oh! You have to ask a favour! It occurred to me,’ and the handsome face +looked bitterly at him, ‘that your manner was softened, Mr Clennam.’ + +He was content to protest against this by a slight action without +contesting it in words. He then referred to Blandois’ disappearance, of +which it was probable she had heard? However probable it was to him, she +had heard of no such thing. Let him look round him (she said) and judge +for himself what general intelligence was likely to reach the ears of +a woman who had been shut up there while it was rife, devouring her own +heart. When she had uttered this denial, which he believed to be true, +she asked him what he meant by disappearance? That led to his narrating +the circumstances in detail, and expressing something of his anxiety +to discover what had really become of the man, and to repel the dark +suspicions that clouded about his mother’s house. She heard him with +evident surprise, and with more marks of suppressed interest than he +had seen in her; still they did not overcome her distant, proud, and +self-secluded manner. When he had finished, she said nothing but these +words: + +‘You have not yet told me, sir, what I have to do with it, or what the +favour is? Will you be so good as come to that?’ + +‘I assume,’ said Arthur, persevering, in his endeavour to soften +her scornful demeanour, ‘that being in communication--may I say, +confidential communication?--with this person--’ + +‘You may say, of course, whatever you like,’ she remarked; ‘but I do not +subscribe to your assumptions, Mr Clennam, or to any one’s.’ + +‘--that being, at least in personal communication with him,’ said +Clennam, changing the form of his position in the hope of making +it unobjectionable, ‘you can tell me something of his antecedents, +pursuits, habits, usual place of residence. Can give me some little clue +by which to seek him out in the likeliest manner, and either produce +him, or establish what has become of him. This is the favour I ask, +and I ask it in a distress of mind for which I hope you will feel some +consideration. If you should have any reason for imposing conditions +upon me, I will respect it without asking what it is.’ + +‘You chanced to see me in the street with the man,’ she observed, +after being, to his mortification, evidently more occupied with her own +reflections on the matter than with his appeal. ‘Then you knew the man +before?’ + +‘Not before; afterwards. I never saw him before, but I saw him again on +this very night of his disappearance. In my mother’s room, in fact. I +left him there. You will read in this paper all that is known of him.’ + +He handed her one of the printed bills, which she read with a steady and +attentive face. + +‘This is more than _I_ knew of him,’ she said, giving it back. +Clennam’s looks expressed his heavy disappointment, perhaps his +incredulity; for she added in the same unsympathetic tone: ‘You don’t +believe it. Still, it is so. As to personal communication: it seems that +there was personal communication between him and your mother. And yet +you say you believe _her_ declaration that she knows no more of him!’ + +A sufficiently expressive hint of suspicion was conveyed in these words, +and in the smile by which they were accompanied, to bring the blood into +Clennam’s cheeks. + +‘Come, sir,’ she said, with a cruel pleasure in repeating the stab, ‘I +will be as open with you as you can desire. I will confess that if I +cared for my credit (which I do not), or had a good name to preserve +(which I have not, for I am utterly indifferent to its being considered +good or bad), I should regard myself as heavily compromised by having +had anything to do with this fellow. Yet he never passed in at _my_ +door--never sat in colloquy with _me_ until midnight.’ + +She took her revenge for her old grudge in thus turning his subject +against him. Hers was not the nature to spare him, and she had no +compunction. + +‘That he is a low, mercenary wretch; that I first saw him prowling about +Italy (where I was, not long ago), and that I hired him there, as the +suitable instrument of a purpose I happened to have; I have no objection +to tell you. In short, it was worth my while, for my own pleasure--the +gratification of a strong feeling--to pay a spy who would fetch and +carry for money. I paid this creature. And I dare say that if I had +wanted to make such a bargain, and if I could have paid him enough, and +if he could have done it in the dark, free from all risk, he would have +taken any life with as little scruple as he took my money. That, at +least, is my opinion of him; and I see it is not very far removed from +yours. Your mother’s opinion of him, I am to assume (following your +example of assuming this and that), was vastly different.’ + +‘My mother, let me remind you,’ said Clennam, ‘was first brought into +communication with him in the unlucky course of business.’ + +‘It appears to have been an unlucky course of business that last brought +her into communication with him,’ returned Miss Wade; ‘and business +hours on that occasion were late.’ + +‘You imply,’ said Arthur, smarting under these cool-handed thrusts, of +which he had deeply felt the force already, ‘that there was something--’ + +‘Mr Clennam,’ she composedly interrupted, ‘recollect that I do not speak +by implication about the man. He is, I say again without disguise, a low +mercenary wretch. I suppose such a creature goes where there is occasion +for him. If I had not had occasion for him, you would not have seen him +and me together.’ + +Wrung by her persistence in keeping that dark side of the case before +him, of which there was a half-hidden shadow in his own breast, Clennam +was silent. + +‘I have spoken of him as still living,’ she added, ‘but he may have been +put out of the way for anything I know. For anything I care, also. I +have no further occasion for him.’ + +With a heavy sigh and a despondent air, Arthur Clennam slowly rose. +She did not rise also, but said, having looked at him in the meanwhile +with a fixed look of suspicion, and lips angrily compressed: + +‘He was the chosen associate of your dear friend, Mr Gowan, was he not? +Why don’t you ask your dear friend to help you?’ + +The denial that he was a dear friend rose to Arthur’s lips; but he +repressed it, remembering his old struggles and resolutions, and said: + +‘Further than that he has never seen Blandois since Blandois set out for +England, Mr Gowan knows nothing additional about him. He was a chance +acquaintance, made abroad.’ + +‘A chance acquaintance made abroad!’ she repeated. ‘Yes. Your dear +friend has need to divert himself with all the acquaintances he can +make, seeing what a wife he has. I hate his wife, sir.’ + +The anger with which she said it, the more remarkable for being so much +under her restraint, fixed Clennam’s attention, and kept him on the +spot. It flashed out of her dark eyes as they regarded him, quivered in +her nostrils, and fired the very breath she exhaled; but her face was +otherwise composed into a disdainful serenity; and her attitude was as +calmly and haughtily graceful as if she had been in a mood of complete +indifference. + +‘All I will say is, Miss Wade,’ he remarked, ‘that you can have received +no provocation to a feeling in which I believe you have no sharer.’ + +‘You may ask your dear friend, if you choose,’ she returned, ‘for his +opinion upon that subject.’ + +‘I am scarcely on those intimate terms with my dear friend,’ said +Arthur, in spite of his resolutions, ‘that would render my approaching +the subject very probable, Miss Wade.’ + +‘I hate him,’ she returned. ‘Worse than his wife, because I was once +dupe enough, and false enough to myself, almost to love him. You have +seen me, sir, only on common-place occasions, when I dare say you have +thought me a common-place woman, a little more self-willed than the +generality. You don’t know what I mean by hating, if you know me no +better than that; you can’t know, without knowing with what care I have +studied myself and people about me. For this reason I have for some +time inclined to tell you what my life has been--not to propitiate your +opinion, for I set no value on it; but that you may comprehend, when +you think of your dear friend and his dear wife, what I mean by hating. +Shall I give you something I have written and put by for your perusal, +or shall I hold my hand?’ + +Arthur begged her to give it to him. She went to the bureau, unlocked +it, and took from an inner drawer a few folded sheets of paper. Without +any conciliation of him, scarcely addressing him, rather speaking as if +she were speaking to her own looking-glass for the justification of her +own stubbornness, she said, as she gave them to him: + +‘Now you may know what I mean by hating! No more of that. Sir, whether +you find me temporarily and cheaply lodging in an empty London house, or +in a Calais apartment, you find Harriet with me. You may like to see +her before you leave. Harriet, come in!’ She called Harriet again. The +second call produced Harriet, once Tattycoram. + +‘Here is Mr Clennam,’ said Miss Wade; ‘not come for you; he has given +you up,--I suppose you have, by this time?’ + +‘Having no authority, or influence--yes,’ assented Clennam. + +‘Not come in search of you, you see; but still seeking some one. He +wants that Blandois man.’ + +‘With whom I saw you in the Strand in London,’ hinted Arthur. + +‘If you know anything of him, Harriet, except that he came from +Venice--which we all know--tell it to Mr Clennam freely.’ + +‘I know nothing more about him,’ said the girl. + +‘Are you satisfied?’ Miss Wade inquired of Arthur. + +He had no reason to disbelieve them; the girl’s manner being so natural +as to be almost convincing, if he had had any previous doubts. He +replied, ‘I must seek for intelligence elsewhere.’ + +He was not going in the same breath; but he had risen before the girl +entered, and she evidently thought he was. She looked quickly at him, +and said: + +‘Are they well, sir?’ + +‘Who?’ + +She stopped herself in saying what would have been ‘all of them;’ +glanced at Miss Wade; and said ‘Mr and Mrs Meagles.’ + +‘They were, when I last heard of them. They are not at home. By the way, +let me ask you. Is it true that you were seen there?’ + +‘Where? Where does any one say I was seen?’ returned the girl, sullenly +casting down her eyes. + +‘Looking in at the garden gate of the cottage.’ + +‘No,’ said Miss Wade. ‘She has never been near it.’ + +‘You are wrong, then,’ said the girl. ‘I went down there the last time +we were in London. I went one afternoon when you left me alone. And I +did look in.’ + +‘You poor-spirited girl,’ returned Miss Wade with infinite contempt; +‘does all our companionship, do all our conversations, do all your old +complainings, tell for so little as that?’ + +‘There was no harm in looking in at the gate for an instant,’ said the +girl. ‘I saw by the windows that the family were not there.’ + +‘Why should you go near the place?’ + +‘Because I wanted to see it. Because I felt that I should like to look +at it again.’ + +As each of the two handsome faces looked at the other, Clennam felt how +each of the two natures must be constantly tearing the other to pieces. + +‘Oh!’ said Miss Wade, coldly subduing and removing her glance; ‘if you +had any desire to see the place where you led the life from which I +rescued you because you had found out what it was, that is another +thing. But is that your truth to me? Is that your fidelity to me? Is +that the common cause I make with you? You are not worth the confidence +I have placed in you. You are not worth the favour I have shown you. You +are no higher than a spaniel, and had better go back to the people who +did worse than whip you.’ + +‘If you speak so of them with any one else by to hear, you’ll provoke me +to take their part,’ said the girl. + +‘Go back to them,’ Miss Wade retorted. ‘Go back to them.’ + +‘You know very well,’ retorted Harriet in her turn, ‘that I won’t go +back to them. You know very well that I have thrown them off, and never +can, never shall, never will, go back to them. Let them alone, then, +Miss Wade.’ + +‘You prefer their plenty to your less fat living here,’ she rejoined. +‘You exalt them, and slight me. What else should I have expected? I +ought to have known it.’ + +‘It’s not so,’ said the girl, flushing high, ‘and you don’t say what you +mean. I know what you mean. You are reproaching me, underhanded, with +having nobody but you to look to. And because I have nobody but you +to look to, you think you are to make me do, or not do, everything you +please, and are to put any affront upon me. You are as bad as they were, +every bit. But I will not be quite tamed, and made submissive. I will +say again that I went to look at the house, because I had often thought +that I should like to see it once more. I will ask again how they are, +because I once liked them and at times thought they were kind to me.’ + +Hereupon Clennam said that he was sure they would still receive her +kindly, if she should ever desire to return. + +‘Never!’ said the girl passionately. ‘I shall never do that. Nobody +knows that better than Miss Wade, though she taunts me because she has +made me her dependent. And I know I am so; and I know she is overjoyed +when she can bring it to my mind.’ + +‘A good pretence!’ said Miss Wade, with no less anger, haughtiness, and +bitterness; ‘but too threadbare to cover what I plainly see in this. My +poverty will not bear competition with their money. Better go back at +once, better go back at once, and have done with it!’ + +Arthur Clennam looked at them, standing a little distance asunder in the +dull confined room, each proudly cherishing her own anger; each, with +a fixed determination, torturing her own breast, and torturing the +other’s. He said a word or two of leave-taking; but Miss Wade barely +inclined her head, and Harriet, with the assumed humiliation of an +abject dependent and serf (but not without defiance for all that), made +as if she were too low to notice or to be noticed. + +He came down the dark winding stairs into the yard with an increased +sense upon him of the gloom of the wall that was dead, and of the shrubs +that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the statue that +was gone. Pondering much on what he had seen and heard in that house, +as well as on the failure of all his efforts to trace the suspicious +character who was lost, he returned to London and to England by the +packet that had taken him over. On the way he unfolded the sheets of +paper, and read in them what is reproduced in the next chapter. + + + + +CHAPTER 21. The History of a Self-Tormentor + + +I have the misfortune of not being a fool. From a very early age I have +detected what those about me thought they hid from me. If I could have +been habitually imposed upon, instead of habitually discerning the +truth, I might have lived as smoothly as most fools do. + +My childhood was passed with a grandmother; that is to say, with a lady +who represented that relative to me, and who took that title on herself. +She had no claim to it, but I--being to that extent a little fool--had +no suspicion of her. She had some children of her own family in her +house, and some children of other people. All girls; ten in number, +including me. We all lived together and were educated together. + +I must have been about twelve years old when I began to see how +determinedly those girls patronised me. I was told I was an orphan. +There was no other orphan among us; and I perceived (here was the +first disadvantage of not being a fool) that they conciliated me in an +insolent pity, and in a sense of superiority. I did not set this down +as a discovery, rashly. I tried them often. I could hardly make them +quarrel with me. When I succeeded with any of them, they were sure to +come after an hour or two, and begin a reconciliation. I tried them over +and over again, and I never knew them wait for me to begin. They were +always forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension. Little images of +grown people! + +One of them was my chosen friend. I loved that stupid mite in a +passionate way that she could no more deserve than I can remember +without feeling ashamed of, though I was but a child. She had what they +called an amiable temper, an affectionate temper. She could distribute, +and did distribute pretty looks and smiles to every one among them. I +believe there was not a soul in the place, except myself, who knew that +she did it purposely to wound and gall me! + +Nevertheless, I so loved that unworthy girl that my life was made stormy +by my fondness for her. I was constantly lectured and disgraced for what +was called ‘trying her;’ in other words charging her with her little +perfidy and throwing her into tears by showing her that I read her +heart. However, I loved her faithfully; and one time I went home with +her for the holidays. + +She was worse at home than she had been at school. She had a crowd of +cousins and acquaintances, and we had dances at her house, and went out +to dances at other houses, and, both at home and out, she tormented my +love beyond endurance. Her plan was, to make them all fond of her--and +so drive me wild with jealousy. To be familiar and endearing with them +all--and so make me mad with envying them. When we were left alone in +our bedroom at night, I would reproach her with my perfect knowledge of +her baseness; and then she would cry and cry and say I was cruel, and +then I would hold her in my arms till morning: loving her as much as +ever, and often feeling as if, rather than suffer so, I could so hold +her in my arms and plunge to the bottom of a river--where I would still +hold her after we were both dead. + +It came to an end, and I was relieved. In the family there was an aunt +who was not fond of me. I doubt if any of the family liked me much; but +I never wanted them to like me, being altogether bound up in the one +girl. The aunt was a young woman, and she had a serious way with her +eyes of watching me. She was an audacious woman, and openly looked +compassionately at me. After one of the nights that I have spoken of, I +came down into a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of +my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I heard this aunt +speaking to her about me as I entered. I stopped where I was, among the +leaves, and listened. + +The aunt said, ‘Charlotte, Miss Wade is wearing you to death, and this +must not continue.’ I repeat the very words I heard. + +Now, what did she answer? Did she say, ‘It is I who am wearing her to +death, I who am keeping her on a rack and am the executioner, yet she +tells me every night that she loves me devotedly, though she knows what +I make her undergo?’ No; my first memorable experience was true to +what I knew her to be, and to all my experience. She began sobbing and +weeping (to secure the aunt’s sympathy to herself), and said, ‘Dear +aunt, she has an unhappy temper; other girls at school, besides I, try +hard to make it better; we all try hard.’ + +Upon that the aunt fondled her, as if she had said something noble +instead of despicable and false, and kept up the infamous pretence by +replying, ‘But there are reasonable limits, my dear love, to everything, +and I see that this poor miserable girl causes you more constant and +useless distress than even so good an effort justifies.’ + +The poor miserable girl came out of her concealment, as you may be +prepared to hear, and said, ‘Send me home.’ I never said another word +to either of them, or to any of them, but ‘Send me home, or I will +walk home alone, night and day!’ When I got home, I told my supposed +grandmother that, unless I was sent away to finish my education +somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any one of them +came back, I would burn my sight away by throwing myself into the fire, +rather than I would endure to look at their plotting faces. + +I went among young women next, and I found them no better. Fair +words and fair pretences; but I penetrated below those assertions of +themselves and depreciations of me, and they were no better. Before +I left them, I learned that I had no grandmother and no recognised +relation. I carried the light of that information both into my past +and into my future. It showed me many new occasions on which people +triumphed over me, when they made a pretence of treating me with +consideration, or doing me a service. + +A man of business had a small property in trust for me. I was to be +a governess; I became a governess; and went into the family of a poor +nobleman, where there were two daughters--little children, but the +parents wished them to grow up, if possible, under one instructress. The +mother was young and pretty. From the first, she made a show of behaving +to me with great delicacy. I kept my resentment to myself; but I knew +very well that it was her way of petting the knowledge that she was my +Mistress, and might have behaved differently to her servant if it had +been her fancy. + +I say I did not resent it, nor did I; but I showed her, by not +gratifying her, that I understood her. When she pressed me to take wine, +I took water. If there happened to be anything choice at table, she +always sent it to me: but I always declined it, and ate of the rejected +dishes. These disappointments of her patronage were a sharp retort, and +made me feel independent. + +I liked the children. They were timid, but on the whole disposed to +attach themselves to me. There was a nurse, however, in the house, a +rosy-faced woman always making an obtrusive pretence of being gay and +good-humoured, who had nursed them both, and who had secured their +affections before I saw them. I could almost have settled down to my +fate but for this woman. Her artful devices for keeping herself before +the children in constant competition with me, might have blinded many +in my place; but I saw through them from the first. On the pretext of +arranging my rooms and waiting on me and taking care of my wardrobe (all +of which she did busily), she was never absent. The most crafty of her +many subtleties was her feint of seeking to make the children fonder of +me. She would lead them to me and coax them to me. ‘Come to good Miss +Wade, come to dear Miss Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you +very much. Miss Wade is a clever lady, who has read heaps of books, and +can tell you far better and more interesting stories than I know. Come +and hear Miss Wade!’ How could I engage their attentions, when my heart +was burning against these ignorant designs? How could I wonder, when I +saw their innocent faces shrinking away, and their arms twining round +her neck, instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking their +curls from her face, and say, ‘They’ll come round soon, Miss Wade; +they’re very simple and loving, ma’am; don’t be at all cast down about +it, ma’am’--exulting over me! + +There was another thing the woman did. At times, when she saw that she +had safely plunged me into a black despondent brooding by these means, +she would call the attention of the children to it, and would show them +the difference between herself and me. ‘Hush! Poor Miss Wade is not +well. Don’t make a noise, my dears, her head aches. Come and comfort +her. Come and ask her if she is better; come and ask her to lie down. I +hope you have nothing on your mind, ma’am. Don’t take on, ma’am, and be +sorry!’ + +It became intolerable. Her ladyship, my Mistress, coming in one day when +I was alone, and at the height of feeling that I could support it no +longer, I told her I must go. I could not bear the presence of that +woman Dawes. + +‘Miss Wade! Poor Dawes is devoted to you; would do anything for you!’ + +I knew beforehand she would say so; I was quite prepared for it; I only +answered, it was not for me to contradict my Mistress; I must go. + +‘I hope, Miss Wade,’ she returned, instantly assuming the tone of +superiority she had always so thinly concealed, ‘that nothing I have +ever said or done since we have been together, has justified your use of +that disagreeable word, “Mistress.” It must have been wholly inadvertent +on my part. Pray tell me what it is.’ + +I replied that I had no complaint to make, either of my Mistress or to +my Mistress; but I must go. + +She hesitated a moment, and then sat down beside me, and laid her hand +on mine. As if that honour would obliterate any remembrance! + +‘Miss Wade, I fear you are unhappy, through causes over which I have no +influence.’ + +I smiled, thinking of the experience the word awakened, and said, ‘I +have an unhappy temper, I suppose.’ + +‘I did not say that.’ + +‘It is an easy way of accounting for anything,’ said I. + +‘It may be; but I did not say so. What I wish to approach is something +very different. My husband and I have exchanged some remarks upon the +subject, when we have observed with pain that you have not been easy +with us.’ + +‘Easy? Oh! You are such great people, my lady,’ said I. + +‘I am unfortunate in using a word which may convey a meaning--and +evidently does--quite opposite to my intention.’ (She had not expected +my reply, and it shamed her.) ‘I only mean, not happy with us. It is +a difficult topic to enter on; but, from one young woman to another, +perhaps--in short, we have been apprehensive that you may allow some +family circumstances of which no one can be more innocent than yourself, +to prey upon your spirits. If so, let us entreat you not to make them +a cause of grief. My husband himself, as is well known, formerly had a +very dear sister who was not in law his sister, but who was universally +beloved and respected--’ + +I saw directly that they had taken me in for the sake of the dead woman, +whoever she was, and to have that boast of me and advantage of me; I +saw, in the nurse’s knowledge of it, an encouragement to goad me as +she had done; and I saw, in the children’s shrinking away, a vague +impression, that I was not like other people. I left that house that +night. + +After one or two short and very similar experiences, which are not to +the present purpose, I entered another family where I had but one pupil: +a girl of fifteen, who was the only daughter. The parents here were +elderly people: people of station, and rich. A nephew whom they had +brought up was a frequent visitor at the house, among many other +visitors; and he began to pay me attention. I was resolute in repulsing +him; for I had determined when I went there, that no one should pity me +or condescend to me. But he wrote me a letter. It led to our being +engaged to be married. + +He was a year younger than I, and young-looking even when that allowance +was made. He was on absence from India, where he had a post that was +soon to grow into a very good one. In six months we were to be married, +and were to go to India. I was to stay in the house, and was to be +married from the house. Nobody objected to any part of the plan. + +I cannot avoid saying he admired me; but, if I could, I would. Vanity +has nothing to do with the declaration, for his admiration worried me. +He took no pains to hide it; and caused me to feel among the rich people +as if he had bought me for my looks, and made a show of his purchase to +justify himself. They appraised me in their own minds, I saw, and were +curious to ascertain what my full value was. I resolved that they +should not know. I was immovable and silent before them; and would have +suffered any one of them to kill me sooner than I would have laid myself +out to bespeak their approval. + +He told me I did not do myself justice. I told him I did, and it was +because I did and meant to do so to the last, that I would not stoop to +propitiate any of them. He was concerned and even shocked, when I added +that I wished he would not parade his attachment before them; but he +said he would sacrifice even the honest impulses of his affection to my +peace. + +Under that pretence he began to retort upon me. By the hour together, he +would keep at a distance from me, talking to any one rather than to me. +I have sat alone and unnoticed, half an evening, while he conversed with +his young cousin, my pupil. I have seen all the while, in people’s eyes, +that they thought the two looked nearer on an equality than he and I. +I have sat, divining their thoughts, until I have felt that his young +appearance made me ridiculous, and have raged against myself for ever +loving him. + +For I did love him once. Undeserving as he was, and little as he thought +of all these agonies that it cost me--agonies which should have made him +wholly and gratefully mine to his life’s end--I loved him. I bore with +his cousin’s praising him to my face, and with her pretending to think +that it pleased me, but full well knowing that it rankled in my breast; +for his sake. While I have sat in his presence recalling all my slights +and wrongs, and deliberating whether I should not fly from the house at +once and never see him again--I have loved him. + +His aunt (my Mistress you will please to remember) deliberately, +wilfully, added to my trials and vexations. It was her delight to +expatiate on the style in which we were to live in India, and on the +establishment we should keep, and the company we should entertain when +he got his advancement. My pride rose against this barefaced way of +pointing out the contrast my married life was to present to my then +dependent and inferior position. I suppressed my indignation; but I +showed her that her intention was not lost upon me, and I repaid her +annoyance by affecting humility. What she described would surely be +a great deal too much honour for me, I would tell her. I was afraid +I might not be able to support so great a change. Think of a mere +governess, her daughter’s governess, coming to that high distinction! It +made her uneasy, and made them all uneasy, when I answered in this way. +They knew that I fully understood her. + +It was at the time when my troubles were at their highest, and when +I was most incensed against my lover for his ingratitude in caring as +little as he did for the innumerable distresses and mortifications I +underwent on his account, that your dear friend, Mr Gowan, appeared +at the house. He had been intimate there for a long time, but had been +abroad. He understood the state of things at a glance, and he understood +me. + +He was the first person I had ever seen in my life who had understood +me. He was not in the house three times before I knew that he +accompanied every movement of my mind. In his coldly easy way with all +of them, and with me, and with the whole subject, I saw it clearly. +In his light protestations of admiration of my future husband, in his +enthusiasm regarding our engagement and our prospects, in his hopeful +congratulations on our future wealth and his despondent references to +his own poverty--all equally hollow, and jesting, and full of mockery--I +saw it clearly. He made me feel more and more resentful, and more and +more contemptible, by always presenting to me everything that surrounded +me with some new hateful light upon it, while he pretended to exhibit +it in its best aspect for my admiration and his own. He was like the +dressed-up Death in the Dutch series; whatever figure he took upon his +arm, whether it was youth or age, beauty or ugliness, whether he danced +with it, sang with it, played with it, or prayed with it, he made it +ghastly. + +You will understand, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, +he really condoled with me; that when he soothed me under my vexations, +he laid bare every smarting wound I had; that when he declared my +‘faithful swain’ to be ‘the most loving young fellow in the world, with +the tenderest heart that ever beat,’ he touched my old misgiving that +I was made ridiculous. These were not great services, you may say. They +were acceptable to me, because they echoed my own mind, and confirmed +my own knowledge. I soon began to like the society of your dear friend +better than any other. + +When I perceived (which I did, almost as soon) that jealousy was growing +out of this, I liked this society still better. Had I not been subject +to jealousy, and were the endurances to be all mine? No. Let him know +what it was! I was delighted that he should know it; I was delighted +that he should feel keenly, and I hoped he did. More than that. He was +tame in comparison with Mr Gowan, who knew how to address me on equal +terms, and how to anatomise the wretched people around us. + +This went on, until the aunt, my Mistress, took it upon herself to speak +to me. It was scarcely worth alluding to; she knew I meant nothing; but +she suggested from herself, knowing it was only necessary to suggest, +that it might be better if I were a little less companionable with Mr +Gowan. + +I asked her how she could answer for what I meant? She could always +answer, she replied, for my meaning nothing wrong. I thanked her, +but said I would prefer to answer for myself and to myself. Her other +servants would probably be grateful for good characters, but I wanted +none. + +Other conversation followed, and induced me to ask her how she knew that +it was only necessary for her to make a suggestion to me, to have it +obeyed? Did she presume on my birth, or on my hire? I was not bought, +body and soul. She seemed to think that her distinguished nephew had +gone into a slave-market and purchased a wife. + +It would probably have come, sooner or later, to the end to which it did +come, but she brought it to its issue at once. She told me, with assumed +commiseration, that I had an unhappy temper. On this repetition of the +old wicked injury, I withheld no longer, but exposed to her all I had +known of her and seen in her, and all I had undergone within myself +since I had occupied the despicable position of being engaged to her +nephew. I told her that Mr Gowan was the only relief I had had in my +degradation; that I had borne it too long, and that I shook it off too +late; but that I would see none of them more. And I never did. + +Your dear friend followed me to my retreat, and was very droll on the +severance of the connection; though he was sorry, too, for the excellent +people (in their way the best he had ever met), and deplored the +necessity of breaking mere house-flies on the wheel. He protested before +long, and far more truly than I then supposed, that he was not worth +acceptance by a woman of such endowments, and such power of character; +but--well, well--! + +Your dear friend amused me and amused himself as long as it suited +his inclinations; and then reminded me that we were both people of the +world, that we both understood mankind, that we both knew there was no +such thing as romance, that we were both prepared for going different +ways to seek our fortunes like people of sense, and that we both foresaw +that whenever we encountered one another again we should meet as the +best friends on earth. So he said, and I did not contradict him. + +It was not very long before I found that he was courting his present +wife, and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated +her then, quite as much as I hate her now; and naturally, therefore, +could desire nothing better than that she should marry him. But I was +restlessly curious to look at her--so curious that I felt it to be one +of the few sources of entertainment left to me. I travelled a little: +travelled until I found myself in her society, and in yours. Your dear +friend, I think, was not known to you then, and had not given you any of +those signal marks of his friendship which he has bestowed upon you. + +In that company I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose +position there was a singular likeness to my own, and in whose character +I was interested and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen +patronage and selfishness, calling themselves kindness, protection, +benevolence, and other fine names, which I have described as inherent in +my nature. I often heard it said, too, that she had ‘an unhappy temper.’ +Well understanding what was meant by the convenient phrase, and wanting +a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I thought I would try to +release the girl from her bondage and sense of injustice. I have no +occasion to relate that I succeeded. + +We have been together ever since, sharing my small means. + + + + +CHAPTER 22. Who passes by this Road so late? + + +Arthur Clennam had made his unavailing expedition to Calais in the midst +of a great pressure of business. A certain barbaric Power with valuable +possessions on the map of the world, had occasion for the services of +one or two engineers, quick in invention and determined in execution: +practical men, who could make the men and means their ingenuity +perceived to be wanted out of the best materials they could find +at hand; and who were as bold and fertile in the adaptation of such +materials to their purpose, as in the conception of their purpose +itself. This Power, being a barbaric one, had no idea of stowing away +a great national object in a Circumlocution Office, as strong wine is +hidden from the light in a cellar until its fire and youth are gone, +and the labourers who worked in the vineyard and pressed the grapes are +dust. With characteristic ignorance, it acted on the most decided and +energetic notions of How to do it; and never showed the least respect +for, or gave any quarter to, the great political science, How not to do +it. Indeed it had a barbarous way of striking the latter art and mystery +dead, in the person of any enlightened subject who practised it. + +Accordingly, the men who were wanted were sought out and found; which +was in itself a most uncivilised and irregular way of proceeding. Being +found, they were treated with great confidence and honour (which again +showed dense political ignorance), and were invited to come at once and +do what they had to do. In short, they were regarded as men who meant to +do it, engaging with other men who meant it to be done. + +Daniel Doyce was one of the chosen. There was no foreseeing at that time +whether he would be absent months or years. The preparations for his +departure, and the conscientious arrangement for him of all the details +and results of their joint business, had necessitated labour within a +short compass of time, which had occupied Clennam day and night. He +had slipped across the water in his first leisure, and had slipped as +quickly back again for his farewell interview with Doyce. + +Him Arthur now showed, with pains and care, the state of their gains and +losses, responsibilities and prospects. Daniel went through it all +in his patient manner, and admired it all exceedingly. He audited the +accounts, as if they were a far more ingenious piece of mechanism than +he had ever constructed, and afterwards stood looking at them, weighing +his hat over his head by the brims, as if he were absorbed in the +contemplation of some wonderful engine. + +‘It’s all beautiful, Clennam, in its regularity and order. Nothing can +be plainer. Nothing can be better.’ + +‘I am glad you approve, Doyce. Now, as to the management of your capital +while you are away, and as to the conversion of so much of it as the +business may need from time to time--’ His partner stopped him. + +‘As to that, and as to everything else of that kind, all rests with you. +You will continue in all such matters to act for both of us, as you +have done hitherto, and to lighten my mind of a load it is much relieved +from.’ + +‘Though, as I often tell you,’ returned Clennam, ‘you unreasonably +depreciate your business qualities.’ + +‘Perhaps so,’ said Doyce, smiling. ‘And perhaps not. Anyhow, I have a +calling that I have studied more than such matters, and that I am better +fitted for. I have perfect confidence in my partner, and I am satisfied +that he will do what is best. If I have a prejudice connected with money +and money figures,’ continued Doyce, laying that plastic workman’s thumb +of his on the lapel of his partner’s coat, ‘it is against speculating. +I don’t think I have any other. I dare say I entertain that prejudice, +only because I have never given my mind fully to the subject.’ + +‘But you shouldn’t call it a prejudice,’ said Clennam. ‘My dear Doyce, +it is the soundest sense.’ + +‘I am glad you think so,’ returned Doyce, with his grey eye looking kind +and bright. + +‘It so happens,’ said Clennam, ‘that just now, not half an hour before +you came down, I was saying the same thing to Pancks, who looked in +here. We both agreed that to travel out of safe investments is one of +the most dangerous, as it is one of the most common, of those follies +which often deserve the name of vices.’ + +‘Pancks?’ said Doyce, tilting up his hat at the back, and nodding with +an air of confidence. ‘Aye, aye, aye! That’s a cautious fellow.’ + +‘He is a very cautious fellow indeed,’ returned Arthur. ‘Quite a +specimen of caution.’ + +They both appeared to derive a larger amount of satisfaction from the +cautious character of Mr Pancks, than was quite intelligible, judged by +the surface of their conversation. + +‘And now,’ said Daniel, looking at his watch, ‘as time and tide wait +for no man, my trusty partner, and as I am ready for starting, bag and +baggage, at the gate below, let me say a last word. I want you to grant +a request of mine.’ + +‘Any request you can make--Except,’ Clennam was quick with his +exception, for his partner’s face was quick in suggesting it, ‘except +that I will abandon your invention.’ + +‘That’s the request, and you know it is,’ said Doyce. + +‘I say, No, then. I say positively, No. Now that I have begun, I will +have some definite reason, some responsible statement, something in the +nature of a real answer, from those people.’ + +‘You will not,’ returned Doyce, shaking his head. ‘Take my word for it, +you never will.’ + +‘At least, I’ll try,’ said Clennam. ‘It will do me no harm to try.’ + +‘I am not certain of that,’ rejoined Doyce, laying his hand persuasively +on his shoulder. ‘It has done me harm, my friend. It has aged me, tired +me, vexed me, disappointed me. It does no man any good to have his +patience worn out, and to think himself ill-used. I fancy, even already, +that unavailing attendance on delays and evasions has made you something +less elastic than you used to be.’ + +‘Private anxieties may have done that for the moment,’ said Clennam, +‘but not official harrying. Not yet. I am not hurt yet.’ + +‘Then you won’t grant my request?’ + +‘Decidedly, No,’ said Clennam. ‘I should be ashamed if I submitted to +be so soon driven out of the field, where a much older and a much more +sensitively interested man contended with fortitude so long.’ + +As there was no moving him, Daniel Doyce returned the grasp of his hand, +and, casting a farewell look round the counting-house, went down-stairs +with him. Doyce was to go to Southampton to join the small staff of +his fellow-travellers; and a coach was at the gate, well furnished and +packed, and ready to take him there. The workmen were at the gate to see +him off, and were mightily proud of him. ‘Good luck to you, Mr Doyce!’ +said one of the number. ‘Wherever you go, they’ll find as they’ve got a +man among ‘em, a man as knows his tools and as his tools knows, a man +as is willing and a man as is able, and if that’s not a man, where is +a man!’ This oration from a gruff volunteer in the back-ground, not +previously suspected of any powers in that way, was received with three +loud cheers; and the speaker became a distinguished character for ever +afterwards. In the midst of the three loud cheers, Daniel gave them all +a hearty ‘Good Bye, Men!’ and the coach disappeared from sight, as if +the concussion of the air had blown it out of Bleeding Heart Yard. + +Mr Baptist, as a grateful little fellow in a position of trust, was +among the workmen, and had done as much towards the cheering as a mere +foreigner could. In truth, no men on earth can cheer like Englishmen, +who do so rally one another’s blood and spirit when they cheer in +earnest, that the stir is like the rush of their whole history, with all +its standards waving at once, from Saxon Alfred’s downwards. Mr Baptist +had been in a manner whirled away before the onset, and was taking his +breath in quite a scared condition when Clennam beckoned him to follow +up-stairs, and return the books and papers to their places. + +In the lull consequent on the departure--in that first vacuity which +ensues on every separation, foreshadowing the great separation that +is always overhanging all mankind--Arthur stood at his desk, looking +dreamily out at a gleam of sun. But his liberated attention soon +reverted to the theme that was foremost in his thoughts, and began, for +the hundredth time, to dwell upon every circumstance that had impressed +itself upon his mind on the mysterious night when he had seen the man at +his mother’s. Again the man jostled him in the crooked street, again +he followed the man and lost him, again he came upon the man in the +court-yard looking at the house, again he followed the man and stood +beside him on the door-steps. + + + ‘Who passes by this road so late? + Compagnon de la Majolaine; + Who passes by this road so late? + Always gay!’ + + +It was not the first time, by many, that he had recalled the song of the +child’s game, of which the fellow had hummed this verse while they stood +side by side; but he was so unconscious of having repeated it audibly, +that he started to hear the next verse. + + + ‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, + Compagnon de la Majolaine; + Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, + Always gay!’ + + +Cavalletto had deferentially suggested the words and tune, supposing him +to have stopped short for want of more. + +‘Ah! You know the song, Cavalletto?’ + +‘By Bacchus, yes, sir! They all know it in France. I have heard it many +times, sung by the little children. The last time when it I have heard,’ +said Mr Baptist, formerly Cavalletto, who usually went back to his +native construction of sentences when his memory went near home, ‘is +from a sweet little voice. A little voice, very pretty, very innocent. +Altro!’ + +‘The last time I heard it,’ returned Arthur, ‘was in a voice quite the +reverse of pretty, and quite the reverse of innocent.’ He said it more +to himself than to his companion, and added to himself, repeating +the man’s next words. ‘Death of my life, sir, it’s my character to be +impatient!’ + +‘EH!’ cried Cavalletto, astounded, and with all his colour gone in a +moment. + +‘What is the matter?’ + +‘Sir! You know where I have heard that song the last time?’ + +With his rapid native action, his hands made the outline of a high hook +nose, pushed his eyes near together, dishevelled his hair, puffed out +his upper lip to represent a thick moustache, and threw the heavy end +of an ideal cloak over his shoulder. While doing this, with a swiftness +incredible to one who has not watched an Italian peasant, he indicated a +very remarkable and sinister smile. The whole change passed over him +like a flash of light, and he stood in the same instant, pale and +astonished, before his patron. + +‘In the name of Fate and wonder,’ said Clennam, ‘what do you mean? Do +you know a man of the name of Blandois?’ + +‘No!’ said Mr Baptist, shaking his head. + +‘You have just now described a man who was by when you heard that song; +have you not?’ + +‘Yes!’ said Mr Baptist, nodding fifty times. + +‘And was he not called Blandois?’ + +‘No!’ said Mr Baptist. ‘Altro, Altro, Altro, Altro!’ He could not reject +the name sufficiently, with his head and his right forefinger going at +once. + +‘Stay!’ cried Clennam, spreading out the handbill on his desk. ‘Was this +the man? You can understand what I read aloud?’ + +‘Altogether. Perfectly.’ + +‘But look at it, too. Come here and look over me, while I read.’ + +Mr Baptist approached, followed every word with his quick eyes, saw +and heard it all out with the greatest impatience, then clapped his +two hands flat upon the bill as if he had fiercely caught some noxious +creature, and cried, looking eagerly at Clennam, ‘It is the man! Behold +him!’ + +‘This is of far greater moment to me’ said Clennam, in great agitation, +‘than you can imagine. Tell me where you knew the man.’ + +Mr Baptist, releasing the paper very slowly and with much discomfiture, +and drawing himself back two or three paces, and making as though he +dusted his hands, returned, very much against his will: + +‘At Marsiglia--Marseilles.’ + +‘What was he?’ + +‘A prisoner, and--Altro! I believe yes!--an,’ Mr Baptist crept closer +again to whisper it, ‘Assassin!’ + +Clennam fell back as if the word had struck him a blow: so terrible +did it make his mother’s communication with the man appear. +Cavalletto dropped on one knee, and implored him, with a redundancy of +gesticulation, to hear what had brought himself into such foul company. + +He told with perfect truth how it had come of a little contraband +trading, and how he had in time been released from prison, and how he +had gone away from those antecedents. How, at the house of entertainment +called the Break of Day at Chalons on the Saone, he had been awakened +in his bed at night by the same assassin, then assuming the name of +Lagnier, though his name had formerly been Rigaud; how the assassin had +proposed that they should join their fortunes together; how he held +the assassin in such dread and aversion that he had fled from him at +daylight, and how he had ever since been haunted by the fear of seeing +the assassin again and being claimed by him as an acquaintance. When he +had related this, with an emphasis and poise on the word, ‘assassin,’ +peculiarly belonging to his own language, and which did not serve to +render it less terrible to Clennam, he suddenly sprang to his feet, +pounced upon the bill again, and with a vehemence that would have been +absolute madness in any man of Northern origin, cried ‘Behold the same +assassin! Here he is!’ + +In his passionate raptures, he at first forgot the fact that he had +lately seen the assassin in London. On his remembering it, it suggested +hope to Clennam that the recognition might be of later date than the +night of the visit at his mother’s; but Cavalletto was too exact and +clear about time and place, to leave any opening for doubt that it had +preceded that occasion. + +‘Listen,’ said Arthur, very seriously. ‘This man, as we have read here, +has wholly disappeared.’ + +‘Of it I am well content!’ said Cavalletto, raising his eyes piously. ‘A +thousand thanks to Heaven! Accursed assassin!’ + +‘Not so,’ returned Clennam; ‘for until something more is heard of him, I +can never know an hour’s peace.’ + +‘Enough, Benefactor; that is quite another thing. A million of excuses!’ + +‘Now, Cavalletto,’ said Clennam, gently turning him by the arm, so that +they looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I am certain that for the little +I have been able to do for you, you are the most sincerely grateful of +men.’ + +‘I swear it!’ cried the other. + +‘I know it. If you could find this man, or discover what has become of +him, or gain any later intelligence whatever of him, you would render +me a service above any other service I could receive in the world, and +would make me (with far greater reason) as grateful to you as you are to +me.’ + +‘I know not where to look,’ cried the little man, kissing Arthur’s +hand in a transport. ‘I know not where to begin. I know not where to go. +But, courage! Enough! It matters not! I go, in this instant of time!’ + +‘Not a word to any one but me, Cavalletto.’ + +‘Al-tro!’ cried Cavalletto. And was gone with great speed. + + + + +CHAPTER 23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise, +respecting her Dreams + + +Left alone, with the expressive looks and gestures of Mr Baptist, +otherwise Giovanni Baptista Cavalletto, vividly before him, Clennam +entered on a weary day. It was in vain that he tried to control his +attention by directing it to any business occupation or train of +thought; it rode at anchor by the haunting topic, and would hold to no +other idea. As though a criminal should be chained in a stationary boat +on a deep clear river, condemned, whatever countless leagues of water +flowed past him, always to see the body of the fellow-creature he had +drowned lying at the bottom, immovable, and unchangeable, except as +the eddies made it broad or long, now expanding, now contracting +its terrible lineaments; so Arthur, below the shifting current of +transparent thoughts and fancies which were gone and succeeded by others +as soon as come, saw, steady and dark, and not to be stirred from its +place, the one subject that he endeavoured with all his might to rid +himself of, and that he could not fly from. + +The assurance he now had, that Blandois, whatever his right name, was +one of the worst of characters, greatly augmented the burden of his +anxieties. Though the disappearance should be accounted for to-morrow, +the fact that his mother had been in communication with such a man, +would remain unalterable. That the communication had been of a secret +kind, and that she had been submissive to him and afraid of him, he +hoped might be known to no one beyond himself; yet, knowing it, how +could he separate it from his old vague fears, and how believe that +there was nothing evil in such relations? + +Her resolution not to enter on the question with him, and his knowledge +of her indomitable character, enhanced his sense of helplessness. It was +like the oppression of a dream to believe that shame and exposure were +impending over her and his father’s memory, and to be shut out, as by a +brazen wall, from the possibility of coming to their aid. The purpose he +had brought home to his native country, and had ever since kept in view, +was, with her greatest determination, defeated by his mother herself, at +the time of all others when he feared that it pressed most. His advice, +energy, activity, money, credit, all his resources whatsoever, were all +made useless. If she had been possessed of the old fabled influence, and +had turned those who looked upon her into stone, she could not have +rendered him more completely powerless (so it seemed to him in his +distress of mind) than she did, when she turned her unyielding face to +his in her gloomy room. + +But the light of that day’s discovery, shining on these considerations, +roused him to take a more decided course of action. Confident in the +rectitude of his purpose, and impelled by a sense of overhanging danger +closing in around, he resolved, if his mother would still admit of no +approach, to make a desperate appeal to Affery. If she could be brought +to become communicative, and to do what lay in her to break the spell of +secrecy that enshrouded the house, he might shake off the paralysis of +which every hour that passed over his head made him more acutely +sensible. This was the result of his day’s anxiety, and this was the +decision he put in practice when the day closed in. + +His first disappointment, on arriving at the house, was to find the door +open, and Mr Flintwinch smoking a pipe on the steps. If circumstances +had been commonly favourable, Mistress Affery would have opened the +door to his knock. Circumstances being uncommonly unfavourable, the door +stood open, and Mr Flintwinch was smoking his pipe on the steps. + +‘Good evening,’ said Arthur. + +‘Good evening,’ said Mr Flintwinch. + +The smoke came crookedly out of Mr Flintwinch’s mouth, as if it +circulated through the whole of his wry figure and came back by his wry +throat, before coming forth to mingle with the smoke from the crooked +chimneys and the mists from the crooked river. + +‘Have you any news?’ said Arthur. + +‘We have no news,’ said Jeremiah. + +‘I mean of the foreign man,’ Arthur explained. + +‘_I_ mean of the foreign man,’ said Jeremiah. + +He looked so grim, as he stood askew, with the knot of his cravat under +his ear, that the thought passed into Clennam’s mind, and not for the +first time by many, could Flintwinch for a purpose of his own have got +rid of Blandois? Could it have been his secret, and his safety, that +were at issue? He was small and bent, and perhaps not actively strong; +yet he was as tough as an old yew-tree, and as crusty as an old jackdaw. +Such a man, coming behind a much younger and more vigorous man, and +having the will to put an end to him and no relenting, might do it +pretty surely in that solitary place at a late hour. + +While, in the morbid condition of his thoughts, these thoughts drifted +over the main one that was always in Clennam’s mind, Mr Flintwinch, +regarding the opposite house over the gateway with his neck twisted and +one eye shut up, stood smoking with a vicious expression upon him; more +as if he were trying to bite off the stem of his pipe, than as if he +were enjoying it. Yet he was enjoying it in his own way. + +‘You’ll be able to take my likeness, the next time you call, Arthur, +I should think,’ said Mr Flintwinch, drily, as he stooped to knock the +ashes out. + +Rather conscious and confused, Arthur asked his pardon, if he had stared +at him unpolitely. ‘But my mind runs so much upon this matter,’ he said, +‘that I lose myself.’ + +‘Hah! Yet I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, quite at his leisure, +‘why it should trouble _you_, Arthur.’ + +‘No?’ + +‘No,’ said Mr Flintwinch, very shortly and decidedly: much as if he were +of the canine race, and snapped at Arthur’s hand. + +‘Is it nothing to see those placards about? Is it nothing to me to +see my mother’s name and residence hawked up and down in such an +association?’ + +‘I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, scraping his horny cheek, ‘that +it need signify much to you. But I’ll tell you what I do see, Arthur,’ +glancing up at the windows; ‘I see the light of fire and candle in your +mother’s room!’ + +‘And what has that to do with it?’ + +‘Why, sir, I read by it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself at him, +‘that if it’s advisable (as the proverb says it is) to let sleeping dogs +lie, it’s just as advisable, perhaps, to let missing dogs lie. Let ‘em +be. They generally turn up soon enough.’ + +Mr Flintwinch turned short round when he had made this remark, and went +into the dark hall. Clennam stood there, following him with his eyes, +as he dipped for a light in the phosphorus-box in the little room at the +side, got one after three or four dips, and lighted the dim lamp against +the wall. All the while, Clennam was pursuing the probabilities--rather +as if they were being shown to him by an invisible hand than as if he +himself were conjuring them up--of Mr Flintwinch’s ways and means of +doing that darker deed, and removing its traces by any of the black +avenues of shadow that lay around them. + +‘Now, sir,’ said the testy Jeremiah; ‘will it be agreeable to walk +up-stairs?’ + +‘My mother is alone, I suppose?’ + +‘Not alone,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Mr Casby and his daughter are with +her. They came in while I was smoking, and I stayed behind to have my +smoke out.’ + +This was the second disappointment. Arthur made no remark upon it, and +repaired to his mother’s room, where Mr Casby and Flora had been +taking tea, anchovy paste, and hot buttered toast. The relics of those +delicacies were not yet removed, either from the table or from the +scorched countenance of Affery, who, with the kitchen toasting-fork +still in her hand, looked like a sort of allegorical personage; except +that she had a considerable advantage over the general run of such +personages in point of significant emblematical purpose. + +Flora had spread her bonnet and shawl upon the bed, with a care +indicative of an intention to stay some time. Mr Casby, too, was beaming +near the hob, with his benevolent knobs shining as if the warm butter of +the toast were exuding through the patriarchal skull, and with his face +as ruddy as if the colouring matter of the anchovy paste were mantling +in the patriarchal visage. Seeing this, as he exchanged the +usual salutations, Clennam decided to speak to his mother without +postponement. + +It had long been customary, as she never changed her room, for those who +had anything to say to her apart, to wheel her to her desk; where she +sat, usually with the back of her chair turned towards the rest of the +room, and the person who talked with her seated in a corner, on a stool +which was always set in that place for that purpose. Except that it +was long since the mother and son had spoken together without the +intervention of a third person, it was an ordinary matter of course +within the experience of visitors for Mrs Clennam to be asked, with a +word of apology for the interruption, if she could be spoken with on +a matter of business, and, on her replying in the affirmative, to be +wheeled into the position described. + +Therefore, when Arthur now made such an apology, and such a request, +and moved her to her desk and seated himself on the stool, Mrs Finching +merely began to talk louder and faster, as a delicate hint that she +could overhear nothing, and Mr Casby stroked his long white locks with +sleepy calmness. + +‘Mother, I have heard something to-day which I feel persuaded you don’t +know, and which I think you should know, of the antecedents of that man +I saw here.’ + +‘I know nothing of the antecedents of the man you saw here, Arthur.’ + +She spoke aloud. He had lowered his own voice; but she rejected that +advance towards confidence as she rejected every other, and spoke in her +usual key and in her usual stern voice. + +‘I have received it on no circuitous information; it has come to me +direct.’ + +She asked him, exactly as before, if he were there to tell her what it +was? + +‘I thought it right that you should know it.’ + +‘And what is it?’ + +‘He has been a prisoner in a French gaol.’ + +She answered with composure, ‘I should think that very likely.’ + +‘But in a gaol for criminals, mother. On an accusation of murder.’ + +She started at the word, and her looks expressed her natural horror. Yet +she still spoke aloud, when she demanded:-- + +‘Who told you so?’ + +‘A man who was his fellow-prisoner.’ + +‘That man’s antecedents, I suppose, were not known to you, before he +told you?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Though the man himself was?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘My case and Flintwinch’s, in respect of this other man! I dare say the +resemblance is not so exact, though, as that your informant became known +to you through a letter from a correspondent with whom he had deposited +money? How does that part of the parallel stand?’ + +Arthur had no choice but to say that his informant had not become known +to him through the agency of any such credentials, or indeed of any +credentials at all. Mrs Clennam’s attentive frown expanded by degrees +into a severe look of triumph, and she retorted with emphasis, ‘Take +care how you judge others, then. I say to you, Arthur, for your good, +take care how you judge!’ + +Her emphasis had been derived from her eyes quite as much as from the +stress she laid upon her words. She continued to look at him; and if, +when he entered the house, he had had any latent hope of prevailing in +the least with her, she now looked it out of his heart. + +‘Mother, shall I do nothing to assist you?’ + +‘Nothing.’ + +‘Will you entrust me with no confidence, no charge, no explanation? +Will you take no counsel with me? Will you not let me come near you?’ + +‘How can you ask me? You separated yourself from my affairs. It was not +my act; it was yours. How can you consistently ask me such a question? +You know that you left me to Flintwinch, and that he occupies your +place.’ + +Glancing at Jeremiah, Clennam saw in his very gaiters that his attention +was closely directed to them, though he stood leaning against the wall +scraping his jaw, and pretended to listen to Flora as she held forth in +a most distracting manner on a chaos of subjects, in which mackerel, and +Mr F.’s Aunt in a swing, had become entangled with cockchafers and the +wine trade. + +‘A prisoner, in a French gaol, on an accusation of murder,’ repeated +Mrs Clennam, steadily going over what her son had said. ‘That is all you +know of him from the fellow-prisoner?’ + +‘In substance, all.’ + +‘And was the fellow-prisoner his accomplice and a murderer, too? But, of +course, he gives a better account of himself than of his friend; it is +needless to ask. This will supply the rest of them here with something +new to talk about. Casby, Arthur tells me--’ + +‘Stay, mother! Stay, stay!’ He interrupted her hastily, for it had not +entered his imagination that she would openly proclaim what he had told +her. + +‘What now?’ she said with displeasure. ‘What more?’ + +‘I beg you to excuse me, Mr Casby--and you, too, Mrs Finching--for one +other moment with my mother--’ + +He had laid his hand upon her chair, or she would otherwise have wheeled +it round with the touch of her foot upon the ground. They were still +face to face. She looked at him, as he ran over the possibilities of +some result he had not intended, and could not foresee, being influenced +by Cavalletto’s disclosure becoming a matter of notoriety, and hurriedly +arrived at the conclusion that it had best not be talked about; though +perhaps he was guided by no more distinct reason than that he had taken +it for granted that his mother would reserve it to herself and her +partner. + +‘What now?’ she said again, impatiently. ‘What is it?’ + +‘I did not mean, mother, that you should repeat what I have +communicated. I think you had better not repeat it.’ + +‘Do you make that a condition with me?’ + +‘Well! Yes.’ + +‘Observe, then! It is you who make this a secret,’ said she, holding +up her hand, ‘and not I. It is you, Arthur, who bring here doubts and +suspicions and entreaties for explanations, and it is you, Arthur, who +bring secrets here. What is it to me, do you think, where the man has +been, or what he has been? What can it be to me? The whole world may +know it, if they care to know it; it is nothing to me. Now, let me go.’ + +He yielded to her imperious but elated look, and turned her chair back +to the place from which he had wheeled it. In doing so he saw elation +in the face of Mr Flintwinch, which most assuredly was not inspired by +Flora. This turning of his intelligence and of his whole attempt and +design against himself, did even more than his mother’s fixedness and +firmness to convince him that his efforts with her were idle. Nothing +remained but the appeal to his old friend Affery. + +But even to get the very doubtful and preliminary stage of making the +appeal, seemed one of the least promising of human undertakings. She +was so completely under the thrall of the two clever ones, was so +systematically kept in sight by one or other of them, and was so afraid +to go about the house besides, that every opportunity of speaking to her +alone appeared to be forestalled. Over and above that, Mistress Affery, +by some means (it was not very difficult to guess, through the sharp +arguments of her liege lord), had acquired such a lively conviction +of the hazard of saying anything under any circumstances, that she had +remained all this time in a corner guarding herself from approach with +that symbolical instrument of hers; so that, when a word or two had +been addressed to her by Flora, or even by the bottle-green patriarch +himself, she had warded off conversation with the toasting-fork like a +dumb woman. + +After several abortive attempts to get Affery to look at him while +she cleared the table and washed the tea-service, Arthur thought of an +expedient which Flora might originate. To whom he therefore whispered, +‘Could you say you would like to go through the house?’ + +Now, poor Flora, being always in fluctuating expectation of the time +when Clennam would renew his boyhood and be madly in love with her +again, received the whisper with the utmost delight; not only as +rendered precious by its mysterious character, but as preparing the +way for a tender interview in which he would declare the state of his +affections. She immediately began to work out the hint. + +‘Ah dear me the poor old room,’ said Flora, glancing round, ‘looks just +as ever Mrs Clennam I am touched to see except for being smokier which +was to be expected with time and which we must all expect and reconcile +ourselves to being whether we like it or not as I am sure I have had to +do myself if not exactly smokier dreadfully stouter which is the same or +worse, to think of the days when papa used to bring me here the least of +girls a perfect mass of chilblains to be stuck upon a chair with my feet +on the rails and stare at Arthur--pray excuse me--Mr Clennam--the +least of boys in the frightfullest of frills and jackets ere yet Mr +F. appeared a misty shadow on the horizon paying attentions like the +well-known spectre of some place in Germany beginning with a B is a +moral lesson inculcating that all the paths in life are similar to the +paths down in the North of England where they get the coals and make the +iron and things gravelled with ashes!’ + +Having paid the tribute of a sigh to the instability of human existence, +Flora hurried on with her purpose. + +‘Not that at any time,’ she proceeded, ‘its worst enemy could have said +it was a cheerful house for that it was never made to be but always +highly impressive, fond memory recalls an occasion in youth ere yet the +judgment was mature when Arthur--confirmed habit--Mr Clennam--took +me down into an unused kitchen eminent for mouldiness and proposed to +secrete me there for life and feed me on what he could hide from his +meals when he was not at home for the holidays and on dry bread in +disgrace which at that halcyon period too frequently occurred, would +it be inconvenient or asking too much to beg to be permitted to revive +those scenes and walk through the house?’ + +Mrs Clennam, who responded with a constrained grace to Mrs Finching’s +good nature in being there at all, though her visit (before Arthur’s +unexpected arrival) was undoubtedly an act of pure good nature and no +self-gratification, intimated that all the house was open to her. Flora +rose and looked to Arthur for his escort. ‘Certainly,’ said he, aloud; +‘and Affery will light us, I dare say.’ + +Affery was excusing herself with ‘Don’t ask nothing of me, Arthur!’ when +Mr Flintwinch stopped her with ‘Why not? Affery, what’s the matter with +you, woman? Why not, jade!’ Thus expostulated with, she came unwillingly +out of her corner, resigned the toasting-fork into one of her husband’s +hands, and took the candlestick he offered from the other. + +‘Go before, you fool!’ said Jeremiah. ‘Are you going up, or down, Mrs +Finching?’ + +Flora answered, ‘Down.’ + +‘Then go before, and down, you Affery,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And do it +properly, or I’ll come rolling down the banisters, and tumbling over +you!’ + +Affery headed the exploring party; Jeremiah closed it. He had no +intention of leaving them. Clennam looking back, and seeing him +following three stairs behind, in the coolest and most methodical +manner exclaimed in a low voice, ‘Is there no getting rid of him!’ Flora +reassured his mind by replying promptly, ‘Why though not exactly +proper Arthur and a thing I couldn’t think of before a younger man or +a stranger still I don’t mind him if you so particularly wish it and +provided you’ll have the goodness not to take me too tight.’ + +Wanting the heart to explain that this was not at all what he meant, +Arthur extended his supporting arm round Flora’s figure. ‘Oh my goodness +me,’ said she. ‘You are very obedient indeed really and it’s extremely +honourable and gentlemanly in you I am sure but still at the same time +if you would like to be a little tighter than that I shouldn’t consider +it intruding.’ + +In this preposterous attitude, unspeakably at variance with his anxious +mind, Clennam descended to the basement of the house; finding that +wherever it became darker than elsewhere, Flora became heavier, and +that when the house was lightest she was too. Returning from the dismal +kitchen regions, which were as dreary as they could be, Mistress Affery +passed with the light into his father’s old room, and then into the old +dining-room; always passing on before like a phantom that was not to be +overtaken, and neither turning nor answering when he whispered, ‘Affery! +I want to speak to you!’ + +In the dining-room, a sentimental desire came over Flora to look into +the dragon closet which had so often swallowed Arthur in the days of his +boyhood--not improbably because, as a very dark closet, it was a likely +place to be heavy in. Arthur, fast subsiding into despair, had opened +it, when a knock was heard at the outer door. + +Mistress Affery, with a suppressed cry, threw her apron over her head. + +‘What? You want another dose!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘You shall have it, +my woman, you shall have a good one! Oh! You shall have a sneezer, you +shall have a teaser!’ + +‘In the meantime is anybody going to the door?’ said Arthur. + +‘In the meantime, _I_ am going to the door, sir,’ returned the old man so +savagely, as to render it clear that in a choice of difficulties he felt +he must go, though he would have preferred not to go. ‘Stay here the +while, all! Affery, my woman, move an inch, or speak a word in your +foolishness, and I’ll treble your dose!’ + +The moment he was gone, Arthur released Mrs Finching: with some +difficulty, by reason of that lady misunderstanding his intentions, and +making arrangements with a view to tightening instead of slackening. + +‘Affery, speak to me now!’ + +‘Don’t touch me, Arthur!’ she cried, shrinking from him. ‘Don’t come +near me. He’ll see you. Jeremiah will. Don’t.’ + +‘He can’t see me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the word, ‘if +I blow the candle out.’ + +‘He’ll hear you,’ cried Affery. + +‘He can’t hear me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the words +again, ‘if I draw you into this black closet, and speak here. Why do +you hide your face?’ + +‘Because I am afraid of seeing something.’ + +‘You can’t be afraid of seeing anything in this darkness, Affery.’ + +‘Yes I am. Much more than if it was light.’ + +‘Why are you afraid?’ + +‘Because the house is full of mysteries and secrets; because it’s full +of whisperings and counsellings; because it’s full of noises. There +never was such a house for noises. I shall die of ‘em, if Jeremiah don’t +strangle me first. As I expect he will.’ + +‘I have never heard any noises here, worth speaking of.’ + +‘Ah! But you would, though, if you lived in the house, and was obliged +to go about it as I am,’ said Affery; ‘and you’d feel that they was so +well worth speaking of, that you’d feel you was nigh bursting through +not being allowed to speak of ‘em. Here’s Jeremiah! You’ll get me +killed.’ + +‘My good Affery, I solemnly declare to you that I can see the light of +the open door on the pavement of the hall, and so could you if you would +uncover your face and look.’ + +‘I durstn’t do it,’ said Affery, ‘I durstn’t never, Arthur. I’m always +blind-folded when Jeremiah an’t a looking, and sometimes even when he +is.’ + +‘He cannot shut the door without my seeing him,’ said Arthur. ‘You are +as safe with me as if he was fifty miles away.’ + +[‘I wish he was!’ cried Affery.) + +‘Affery, I want to know what is amiss here; I want some light thrown +on the secrets of this house.’ + +‘I tell you, Arthur,’ she interrupted, ‘noises is the secrets, rustlings +and stealings about, tremblings, treads overhead and treads underneath.’ + +‘But those are not all the secrets.’ + +‘I don’t know,’ said Affery. ‘Don’t ask me no more. Your old sweetheart +an’t far off, and she’s a blabber.’ + +His old sweetheart, being in fact so near at hand that she was then +reclining against him in a flutter, a very substantial angle of +forty-five degrees, here interposed to assure Mistress Affery with +greater earnestness than directness of asseveration, that what she heard +should go no further, but should be kept inviolate, ‘if on no other +account on Arthur’s--sensible of intruding in being too familiar Doyce +and Clennam’s.’ + +‘I make an imploring appeal to you, Affery, to you, one of the few +agreeable early remembrances I have, for my mother’s sake, for your +husband’s sake, for my own, for all our sakes. I am sure you can tell me +something connected with the coming here of this man, if you will.’ + +‘Why, then I’ll tell you, Arthur,’ returned Affery--‘Jeremiah’s coming!’ + +‘No, indeed he is not. The door is open, and he is standing outside, +talking.’ + +‘I’ll tell you then,’ said Affery, after listening, ‘that the first time +he ever come he heard the noises his own self. “What’s that?” he said to +me. “I don’t know what it is,” I says to him, catching hold of him, +“but I have heard it over and over again.” While I says it, he stands a +looking at me, all of a shake, he do.’ + +‘Has he been here often?’ + +‘Only that night, and the last night.’ + +‘What did you see of him on the last night, after I was gone?’ + +‘Them two clever ones had him all alone to themselves. Jeremiah come +a dancing at me sideways, after I had let you out (he always comes a +dancing at me sideways when he’s going to hurt me), and he said to me, +“Now, Affery,” he said, “I am a coming behind you, my woman, and a going +to run you up.” So he took and squeezed the back of my neck in his hand, +till it made me open my mouth, and then he pushed me before him to bed, +squeezing all the way. That’s what he calls running me up, he do. Oh, +he’s a wicked one!’ + +‘And did you hear or see no more, Affery?’ + +‘Don’t I tell you I was sent to bed, Arthur! Here he is!’ + +‘I assure you he is still at the door. Those whisperings and +counsellings, Affery, that you have spoken of. What are they?’ + +‘How should I know? Don’t ask me nothing about ‘em, Arthur. Get away!’ + +‘But my dear Affery; unless I can gain some insight into these hidden +things, in spite of your husband and in spite of my mother, ruin will +come of it.’ + +‘Don’t ask me nothing,’ repeated Affery. ‘I have been in a dream for +ever so long. Go away, go away!’ + +‘You said that before,’ returned Arthur. ‘You used the same expression +that night, at the door, when I asked you what was going on here. What +do you mean by being in a dream?’ + +‘I an’t a going to tell you. Get away! I shouldn’t tell you, if you was +by yourself; much less with your old sweetheart here.’ + +It was equally vain for Arthur to entreat, and for Flora to protest. +Affery, who had been trembling and struggling the whole time, turned a +deaf ear to all adjuration, and was bent on forcing herself out of the +closet. + +‘I’d sooner scream to Jeremiah than say another word! I’ll call out to +him, Arthur, if you don’t give over speaking to me. Now here’s the very +last word I’ll say afore I call to him--If ever you begin to get the +better of them two clever ones your own self (you ought to it, as I told +you when you first come home, for you haven’t been a living here long +years, to be made afeared of your life as I have), then do you get the +better of ‘em afore my face; and then do you say to me, Affery tell your +dreams! Maybe, then I’ll tell ‘em!’ + +The shutting of the door stopped Arthur from replying. They glided into +the places where Jeremiah had left them; and Clennam, stepping forward +as that old gentleman returned, informed him that he had accidentally +extinguished the candle. Mr Flintwinch looked on as he re-lighted it at +the lamp in the hall, and preserved a profound taciturnity respecting +the person who had been holding him in conversation. Perhaps his +irascibility demanded compensation for some tediousness that the visitor +had expended on him; however that was, he took such umbrage at seeing +his wife with her apron over her head, that he charged at her, and +taking her veiled nose between his thumb and finger, appeared to throw +the whole screw-power of his person into the wring he gave it. + +Flora, now permanently heavy, did not release Arthur from the survey of +the house, until it had extended even to his old garret bedchamber. His +thoughts were otherwise occupied than with the tour of inspection; yet +he took particular notice at the time, as he afterwards had occasion to +remember, of the airlessness and closeness of the house; that they left +the track of their footsteps in the dust on the upper floors; and that +there was a resistance to the opening of one room door, which occasioned +Affery to cry out that somebody was hiding inside, and to continue to +believe so, though somebody was sought and not discovered. When they at +last returned to his mother’s room, they found her shading her face +with her muffled hand, and talking in a low voice to the Patriarch as he +stood before the fire, whose blue eyes, polished head, and silken locks, +turning towards them as they came in, imparted an inestimable value and +inexhaustible love of his species to his remark: + +‘So you have been seeing the premises, seeing the premises--premises-- +seeing the premises!’ + +It was not in itself a jewel of benevolence or wisdom, yet he made it an +exemplar of both that one would have liked to have a copy of. + + + + +CHAPTER 24. The Evening of a Long Day + + +That illustrious man and great national ornament, Mr Merdle, continued +his shining course. It began to be widely understood that one who had +done society the admirable service of making so much money out of it, +could not be suffered to remain a commoner. A baronetcy was spoken of +with confidence; a peerage was frequently mentioned. Rumour had it +that Mr Merdle had set his golden face against a baronetcy; that he had +plainly intimated to Lord Decimus that a baronetcy was not enough +for him; that he had said, ‘No--a Peerage, or plain Merdle.’ This was +reported to have plunged Lord Decimus as nigh to his noble chin in a +slough of doubts as so lofty a person could be sunk. For the Barnacles, +as a group of themselves in creation, had an idea that such distinctions +belonged to them; and that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer became +ennobled, they let him in, as it were, by an act of condescension, at +the family door, and immediately shut it again. Not only (said Rumour) +had the troubled Decimus his own hereditary part in this impression, but +he also knew of several Barnacle claims already on the file, which came +into collision with that of the master spirit. Right or wrong, Rumour +was very busy; and Lord Decimus, while he was, or was supposed to be, in +stately excogitation of the difficulty, lent her some countenance by +taking, on several public occasions, one of those elephantine trots of +his through a jungle of overgrown sentences, waving Mr Merdle about on +his trunk as Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of England, Elasticity, +Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and all manner of blessings. + +So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe go on, that fully three +months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid +in one tomb in the strangers’ cemetery at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were +established in their own house: a little mansion, rather of the Tite +Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell +in it of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses, but extremely +dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this +enviable abode (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler +had intended to proceed at once to the demolition of the Bosom, when +active hostilities had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with +his tidings of death. Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received +them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours; +after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every +precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle’s. A +gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished family (according +to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back +again. + +Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over +them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot +summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable +globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable cold in +its head, was that evening particularly stifling. The bells of the +churches had done their worst in the way of clanging among the +unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of the +churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out +opaque black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open +window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette +and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another +window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view. +Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that +view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two. + +‘It’s like lying in a well,’ said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position +fretfully. ‘Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don’t you +say it?’ + +Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness, ‘My life, I have +nothing to say.’ But, as the repartee did not occur to him, he contented +himself with coming in from the balcony and standing at the side of his +wife’s couch. + +‘Good gracious, Edmund!’ said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, ‘you are +absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don’t!’ + +Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind--perhaps in a more literal absence of +mind than is usually understood by the phrase--had smelt so hard at a +sprig in his hand as to be on the verge of the offence in question. He +smiled, said, ‘I ask your pardon, my dear,’ and threw it out of window. + +‘You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,’ said Mrs +Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; ‘you look so +aggravatingly large by this light. Do sit down.’ + +‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same +spot. + +‘If I didn’t know that the longest day was past,’ said Fanny, yawning in +a dreary manner, ‘I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I +never did experience such a day.’ + +‘Is that your fan, my love?’ asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and +presenting it. + +‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, more wearily yet, ‘don’t ask weak +questions, I entreat you not. Whose can it be but mine?’ + +‘Yes, I thought it was yours,’ said Mr Sparkler. + +‘Then you shouldn’t ask,’ retorted Fanny. After a little while she +turned on her sofa and exclaimed, ‘Dear me, dear me, there never was +such a long day as this!’ After another little while, she got up slowly, +walked about, and came back again. + +‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, ‘I +think you must have got the fidgets.’ + +‘Oh, Fidgets!’ repeated Mrs Sparkler. ‘Don’t.’ + +‘My adorable girl,’ urged Mr Sparkler, ‘try your aromatic vinegar. I +have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her. + +And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably fine woman, with no +non--’ + +‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. ‘It’s beyond all +patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the +world, I am certain.’ + +Mr Sparkler looked meekly after her as she lounged about the room, and +he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles +about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the +three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its +pillows. + +‘Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able +to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I +am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you _do_ look so +big!’ + +Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn’t +help it, and said that ‘our fellows,’ without more particularly +indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus +Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain. + +‘You ought to have told me so before,’ Fanny complained. + +‘My dear,’ returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, ‘I didn’t know +It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.’ + +‘There! For goodness sake, don’t talk,’ said Fanny; ‘I want to talk, +myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such +precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of +dreadful depression in which I am this evening.’ + +‘My dear,’ answered Mr Sparkler; ‘being as you are well known to be, a +remarkably fine woman with no--’ + +‘Oh, good GRACIOUS!’ cried Fanny. + +Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation, +accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down +again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to +saying in explanation: + +‘I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in +society.’ + +‘Calculated to shine in society,’ retorted Fanny with great +irritability; ‘yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover, +in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa’s death, and my +poor uncle’s--though I do not disguise from myself that the last was +a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better +die--’ + +‘You are not referring to me, my love, I hope?’ Mr Sparkler humbly +interrupted. + +‘Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking +of my poor uncle?’ + +‘You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,’ said Mr +Sparkler, ‘that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.’ + +‘Now you have put me out,’ observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her +fan, ‘and I had better go to bed.’ + +‘Don’t do that, my love,’ urged Mr Sparkler. ‘Take time.’ + +Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her +eyebrows raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly given +up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she +opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner: + +‘What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very +period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for +very momentous reasons to shine in society--I find myself in a situation +which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It’s +too bad, really!’ + +‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I don’t think it need keep you at +home.’ + +‘Edmund, you ridiculous creature,’ returned Fanny, with great +indignation; ‘do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not +wholly devoid of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a +time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her +inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly is boundless.’ + +Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought ‘it might be got over.’ + +‘Got over!’ repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn. + +‘For a time,’ Mr Sparkler submitted. + +Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler +declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively +it was enough to make one wish one was dead! + +‘However,’ she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her +sense of personal ill-usage; ‘provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems, +I suppose it must be submitted to.’ + +‘Especially as it was to be expected,’ said Mr Sparkler. + +‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, ‘if you have nothing more becoming to do +than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand, +when she finds herself in adversity, I think _you_ had better go to bed!’ + +Mr Sparkler was much afflicted by the charge, and offered a most +tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler +requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the +window-curtain, to tone himself down. + +‘Now, Edmund,’ she said, stretching out her fan, and touching him with +it at arm’s length, ‘what I was going to say to you when you began as +usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone +any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own +satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here; +for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has +been.’ + +Mr Sparkler’s sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no +nonsense about it. He added, ‘And besides, you know it’s likely that +you’ll soon have your sister--’ + +‘Dearest Amy, yes!’ cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection. +‘Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.’ + +Mr Sparkler was going to say ‘No?’ interrogatively, but he saw his +danger and said it assentingly, ‘No, Oh dear no; she wouldn’t do here +alone.’ + +‘No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues of the precious child of that +still character that they require a contrast--require life and movement +around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love +them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts +than one.’ + +‘That’s it,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Roused.’ + +‘Pray don’t, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least +thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it. +Speaking of Amy;--my poor little pet was devotedly attached to poor +papa, and no doubt will have lamented his loss exceedingly, and grieved +very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy +will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the +whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I +unhappily was not.’ + +Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, ‘Dear, dear, beloved papa! How +truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!’ + +‘From the effects of that trying time,’ she pursued, ‘my good little +Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long +attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not +yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the +meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa’s affairs from +being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents +here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he +providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order +that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in +Sicily, sufficiently to come over, and administer, or execute, or +whatever it may be that will have to be done.’ + +‘He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round,’ Mr Sparkler made +bold to opine. + +‘For a wonder, I can agree with you,’ returned his wife, languidly +turning her eyelids a little in his direction (she held forth, in +general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), ‘and can adopt your +words. He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round. There are +times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as +a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!’ + +Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had +had, biggodd, a long bout of it, my dear girl. + +‘If Bout, Edmund,’ returned Mrs Sparkler, ‘is the slang term for +indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion +on the barbarous language you address to Edward’s sister. That he +contracted Malaria Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night +to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa +before his death--or under some other unwholesome circumstances--is +indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely +careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.’ + +Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows +in the West Indies with Yellow Jack. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again, +and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies, +or of Yellow Jack. + +‘So, Amy,’ she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, ‘will require +to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And +lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know +very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don’t ask me what it is, +Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.’ + +‘I am not going to, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler. + +‘I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,’ Mrs +Sparkler continued, ‘and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable and +dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa’s affairs, my +interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me +when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided +he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy to Mrs +General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.’ + +She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name +soon stimulated her to dry her eyes and say: + +‘It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward’s illness, I am +thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense +not being impaired, or his proper spirit weakened--down to the time +of poor dear papa’s death at all events--that he paid off Mrs General +instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could +forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly +what I would have done myself!’ + +Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double +knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid +making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking +were preoccupied in mind, and forgot to leave off. + +‘Halloa!’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Who’s this?’ + +‘Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!’ said Mrs +Sparkler. ‘Look out.’ + +The room was dark, but the street was lighter, because of its lamps. Mr +Sparkler’s head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy +that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening the +unknown below. + +‘It’s one fellow,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I can’t see who--stop though!’ + +On this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had +another look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he +believed he had identified ‘his governor’s tile.’ He was not mistaken, +for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately +afterwards. + +‘Candles!’ said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness. + +‘It’s light enough for me,’ said Mr Merdle. + +When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing +behind the door, picking his lips. ‘I thought I’d give you a call,’ he +said. ‘I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to +be out for a stroll, I thought I’d give you a call.’ + +As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining? + +‘Well,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I haven’t been dining anywhere, particularly.’ + +‘Of course you have dined?’ said Fanny. + +‘Why--no, I haven’t exactly dined,’ said Mr Merdle. + +He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he +were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. ‘No, thank you,’ +said Mr Merdle, ‘I don’t feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out +along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn’t feel inclined for dinner, I let +Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and +thought I’d take a stroll instead.’ + +Would he have tea or coffee? ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I looked +in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.’ + +At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund +Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly +about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first +time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon +another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some +twenty feet deep, said again: ‘You see I thought I’d give you a call.’ + +‘Flattering to us,’ said Fanny, ‘for you are not a calling man.’ + +‘No--no,’ returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into +custody under both coat-sleeves. ‘No, I am not a calling man.’ + +‘You have too much to do for that,’ said Fanny. ‘Having so much to do, +Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must +have it seen to. You must not be ill.’ + +‘Oh! I am very well,’ replied Mr Merdle, after deliberating about it. ‘I +am as well as I usually am. I am well enough. I am as well as I want to +be.’ + +The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all +times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great +difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder +how long the master-mind meant to stay. + +‘I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.’ + +‘Aye! Quite a coincidence,’ said Mr Merdle. + +Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent on her to continue +talking. ‘I was saying,’ she pursued, ‘that my brother’s illness has +occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa’s property.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. There has been a delay.’ + +‘Not that it is of consequence,’ said Fanny. + +‘Not,’ assented Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all +that part of the room which was within his range: ‘not that it is of any +consequence.’ + +‘My only anxiety is,’ said Fanny, ‘that Mrs General should not get +anything.’ + +‘_She_ won’t get anything,’ said Mr Merdle. + +Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after +taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw +something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last +remark the confirmatory words, ‘Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.’ + +As the topic seemed exhausted, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he +were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home? + +‘No,’ he answered; ‘I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle +to--’ here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were +telling his own fortune--‘to take care of herself. I dare say she’ll +manage to do it.’ + +‘Probably,’ said Fanny. + +There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back +on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former +retirement from mundane affairs. + +‘But, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am equally detaining you and myself. +I thought I’d give you a call, you know.’ + +‘Charmed, I am sure,’ said Fanny. + +‘So I am off,’ added Mr Merdle, getting up. ‘Could you lend me a +penknife?’ + +It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom +prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such +vast business as Mr Merdle. ‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Merdle acquiesced; ‘but +I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes +about, with scissors and tweezers and such things in them. You shall +have it back to-morrow.’ + +‘Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, ‘open (now, very carefully, I beg and +beseech, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my +little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.’ + +‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘but if you have got one with a darker +handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.’ + +‘Tortoise-shell?’ + +‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. I think I should prefer +tortoise-shell.’ + +Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box, +and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife +said to the master-spirit graciously: + +‘I will forgive you, if you ink it.’ + +‘I’ll undertake not to ink it,’ said Mr Merdle. + +The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment +entombed Mrs Sparkler’s hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own +hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs +Sparkler’s sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious Chelsea +Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner. + +Thoroughly convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the +longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never +was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by +idiotic and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath +of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of +making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap, +and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed of several Devils. + + + + +CHAPTER 25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office + + +The dinner-party was at the great Physician’s. Bar was there, and in +full force. Ferdinand Barnacle was there, and in his most engaging +state. Few ways of life were hidden from Physician, and he was oftener +in its darkest places than even Bishop. There were brilliant ladies +about London who perfectly doted on him, my dear, as the most charming +creature and the most delightful person, who would have been shocked to +find themselves so close to him if they could have known on what sights +those thoughtful eyes of his had rested within an hour or two, and near +to whose beds, and under what roofs, his composed figure had stood. But +Physician was a composed man, who performed neither on his own trumpet, +nor on the trumpets of other people. Many wonderful things did he see +and hear, and much irreconcilable moral contradiction did he pass his +life among; yet his equality of compassion was no more disturbed than +the Divine Master’s of all healing was. He went, like the rain, +among the just and unjust, doing all the good he could, and neither +proclaiming it in the synagogues nor at the corner of streets. + +As no man of large experience of humanity, however quietly carried +it may be, can fail to be invested with an interest peculiar to the +possession of such knowledge, Physician was an attractive man. Even the +daintier gentlemen and ladies who had no idea of his secret, and +who would have been startled out of more wits than they had, by the +monstrous impropriety of his proposing to them ‘Come and see what I +see!’ confessed his attraction. Where he was, something real was. And +half a grain of reality, like the smallest portion of some other scarce +natural productions, will flavour an enormous quantity of diluent. + +It came to pass, therefore, that Physician’s little dinners always +presented people in their least conventional lights. The guests said to +themselves, whether they were conscious of it or no, ‘Here is a man who +really has an acquaintance with us as we are, who is admitted to some +of us every day with our wigs and paint off, who hears the wanderings of +our minds, and sees the undisguised expression of our faces, when both +are past our control; we may as well make an approach to reality with +him, for the man has got the better of us and is too strong for us.’ +Therefore, Physician’s guests came out so surprisingly at his round +table that they were almost natural. + +Bar’s knowledge of that agglomeration of jurymen which is called +humanity was as sharp as a razor; yet a razor is not a generally +convenient instrument, and Physician’s plain bright scalpel, though far +less keen, was adaptable to far wider purposes. Bar knew all about the +gullibility and knavery of people; but Physician could have given him +a better insight into their tendernesses and affections, in one week of +his rounds, than Westminster Hall and all the circuits put together, +in threescore years and ten. Bar always had a suspicion of this, and +perhaps was glad to encourage it (for, if the world were really a great +Law Court, one would think that the last day of Term could not too soon +arrive); and so he liked and respected Physician quite as much as any +other kind of man did. + +Mr Merdle’s default left a Banquo’s chair at the table; but, if he had +been there, he would have merely made the difference of Banquo in it, +and consequently he was no loss. Bar, who picked up all sorts of odds +and ends about Westminster Hall, much as a raven would have done if he +had passed as much of his time there, had been picking up a great many +straws lately and tossing them about, to try which way the Merdle wind +blew. He now had a little talk on the subject with Mrs Merdle herself; +sidling up to that lady, of course, with his double eye-glass and his +jury droop. + +‘A certain bird,’ said Bar; and he looked as if it could have been no +other bird than a magpie; ‘has been whispering among us lawyers lately, +that there is to be an addition to the titled personages of this realm.’ + +‘Really?’ said Mrs Merdle. + +‘Yes,’ said Bar. ‘Has not the bird been whispering in very different +ears from ours--in lovely ears?’ He looked expressively at Mrs Merdle’s +nearest ear-ring. + +‘Do you mean mine?’ asked Mrs Merdle. + +‘When I say lovely,’ said Bar, ‘I always mean you.’ + +‘You never mean anything, I think,’ returned Mrs Merdle (not +displeased). + +‘Oh, cruelly unjust!’ said Bar. ‘But, the bird.’ + +‘I am the last person in the world to hear news,’ observed Mrs Merdle, +carelessly arranging her stronghold. ‘Who is it?’ + +‘What an admirable witness you would make!’ said Bar. ‘No jury (unless +we could empanel one of blind men) could resist you, if you were ever so +bad a one; but you would be such a good one!’ + +‘Why, you ridiculous man?’ asked Mrs Merdle, laughing. + +Bar waved his double eye-glass three or four times between himself and +the Bosom, as a rallying answer, and inquired in his most insinuating +accents: + +‘What am I to call the most elegant, accomplished and charming of women, +a few weeks, or it may be a few days, hence?’ + +‘Didn’t your bird tell you what to call her?’ answered Mrs Merdle. ‘Do +ask it to-morrow, and tell me the next time you see me what it says.’ + +This led to further passages of similar pleasantry between the two; but +Bar, with all his sharpness, got nothing out of them. Physician, on the +other hand, taking Mrs Merdle down to her carriage and attending on her +as she put on her cloak, inquired into the symptoms with his usual calm +directness. + +‘May I ask,’ he said, ‘is this true about Merdle?’ + +‘My dear doctor,’ she returned, ‘you ask me the very question that I was +half disposed to ask you.’ + +‘To ask me! Why me?’ + +‘Upon my honour, I think Mr Merdle reposes greater confidence in you +than in any one.’ + +‘On the contrary, he tells me absolutely nothing, even professionally. +You have heard the talk, of course?’ + +‘Of course I have. But you know what Mr Merdle is; you know how +taciturn and reserved he is. I assure you I have no idea what foundation +for it there may be. I should like it to be true; why should I deny that +to you? You would know better, if I did!’ + +‘Just so,’ said Physician. + +‘But whether it is all true, or partly true, or entirely false, I am +wholly unable to say. It is a most provoking situation, a most absurd +situation; but you know Mr Merdle, and are not surprised.’ + +Physician was not surprised, handed her into her carriage, and bade her +Good Night. He stood for a moment at his own hall door, looking sedately +at the elegant equipage as it rattled away. On his return up-stairs, the +rest of the guests soon dispersed, and he was left alone. Being a great +reader of all kinds of literature (and never at all apologetic for that +weakness), he sat down comfortably to read. + +The clock upon his study table pointed to a few minutes short of twelve, +when his attention was called to it by a ringing at the door bell. A man +of plain habits, he had sent his servants to bed and must needs go down +to open the door. He went down, and there found a man without hat or +coat, whose shirt sleeves were rolled up tight to his shoulders. For a +moment, he thought the man had been fighting: the rather, as he was much +agitated and out of breath. A second look, however, showed him that +the man was particularly clean, and not otherwise discomposed as to his +dress than as it answered this description. + +‘I come from the warm-baths, sir, round in the neighbouring street.’ + +‘And what is the matter at the warm-baths?’ + +‘Would you please to come directly, sir. We found that, lying on the +table.’ + +He put into the physician’s hand a scrap of paper. Physician looked at +it, and read his own name and address written in pencil; nothing more. +He looked closer at the writing, looked at the man, took his hat from +its peg, put the key of his door in his pocket, and they hurried away +together. + +When they came to the warm-baths, all the other people belonging to that +establishment were looking out for them at the door, and running up and +down the passages. ‘Request everybody else to keep back, if you please,’ +said the physician aloud to the master; ‘and do you take me straight to +the place, my friend,’ to the messenger. + +The messenger hurried before him, along a grove of little rooms, +and turning into one at the end of the grove, looked round the door. +Physician was close upon him, and looked round the door too. + +There was a bath in that corner, from which the water had been hastily +drained off. Lying in it, as in a grave or sarcophagus, with a hurried +drapery of sheet and blanket thrown across it, was the body of a +heavily-made man, with an obtuse head, and coarse, mean, common +features. A sky-light had been opened to release the steam with which +the room had been filled; but it hung, condensed into water-drops, +heavily upon the walls, and heavily upon the face and figure in the +bath. The room was still hot, and the marble of the bath still warm; but +the face and figure were clammy to the touch. The white marble at the +bottom of the bath was veined with a dreadful red. On the ledge at +the side, were an empty laudanum-bottle and a tortoise-shell handled +penknife--soiled, but not with ink. + +‘Separation of jugular vein--death rapid--been dead at least half an +hour.’ This echo of the physician’s words ran through the passages +and little rooms, and through the house while he was yet straightening +himself from having bent down to reach to the bottom of the bath, and +while he was yet dabbling his hands in water; redly veining it as the +marble was veined, before it mingled into one tint. + +He turned his eyes to the dress upon the sofa, and to the watch, money, +and pocket-book on the table. A folded note half buckled up in the +pocket-book, and half protruding from it, caught his observant glance. +He looked at it, touched it, pulled it a little further out from among +the leaves, said quietly, ‘This is addressed to me,’ and opened and read +it. + +There were no directions for him to give. The people of the house knew +what to do; the proper authorities were soon brought; and they took an +equable business-like possession of the deceased, and of what had been +his property, with no greater disturbance of manner or countenance than +usually attends the winding-up of a clock. Physician was glad to walk +out into the night air--was even glad, in spite of his great experience, +to sit down upon a door-step for a little while: feeling sick and faint. + +Bar was a near neighbour of his, and, when he came to the house, he saw +a light in the room where he knew his friend often sat late getting up +his work. As the light was never there when Bar was not, it gave him +assurance that Bar was not yet in bed. In fact, this busy bee had +a verdict to get to-morrow, against evidence, and was improving the +shining hours in setting snares for the gentlemen of the jury. + +Physician’s knock astonished Bar; but, as he immediately suspected that +somebody had come to tell him that somebody else was robbing him, or +otherwise trying to get the better of him, he came down promptly and +softly. He had been clearing his head with a lotion of cold water, as a +good preparative to providing hot water for the heads of the jury, and +had been reading with the neck of his shirt thrown wide open that he +might the more freely choke the opposite witnesses. In consequence, he +came down, looking rather wild. Seeing Physician, the least expected of +men, he looked wilder and said, ‘What’s the matter?’ + +‘You asked me once what Merdle’s complaint was.’ + +‘Extraordinary answer! I know I did.’ + +‘I told you I had not found out.’ + +‘Yes. I know you did.’ + +‘I have found it out.’ + +‘My God!’ said Bar, starting back, and clapping his hand upon the +other’s breast. ‘And so have I! I see it in your face.’ + +They went into the nearest room, where Physician gave him the letter to +read. He read it through half-a-dozen times. There was not much in it +as to quantity; but it made a great demand on his close and continuous +attention. He could not sufficiently give utterance to his regret that +he had not himself found a clue to this. The smallest clue, he said, +would have made him master of the case, and what a case it would have +been to have got to the bottom of! + +Physician had engaged to break the intelligence in Harley Street. Bar +could not at once return to his inveiglements of the most enlightened +and remarkable jury he had ever seen in that box, with whom, he could +tell his learned friend, no shallow sophistry would go down, and no +unhappily abused professional tact and skill prevail (this was the way +he meant to begin with them); so he said he would go too, and would +loiter to and fro near the house while his friend was inside. They +walked there, the better to recover self-possession in the air; and the +wings of day were fluttering the night when Physician knocked at the +door. + +A footman of rainbow hues, in the public eye, was sitting up for his +master--that is to say, was fast asleep in the kitchen over a couple +of candles and a newspaper, demonstrating the great accumulation of +mathematical odds against the probabilities of a house being set on fire +by accident When this serving man was roused, Physician had still to +await the rousing of the Chief Butler. At last that noble creature came +into the dining-room in a flannel gown and list shoes; but with his +cravat on, and a Chief Butler all over. It was morning now. Physician +had opened the shutters of one window while waiting, that he might see +the light. + +‘Mrs Merdle’s maid must be called, and told to get Mrs Merdle up, and +prepare her as gently as she can to see me. I have dreadful news to +break to her.’ + +Thus Physician to the Chief Butler. The latter, who had a candle in his +hand, called his man to take it away. Then he approached the window with +dignity; looking on at Physician’s news exactly as he had looked on at +the dinners in that very room. + +‘Mr Merdle is dead.’ + +‘I should wish,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘to give a month’s notice.’ + +‘Mr Merdle has destroyed himself.’ + +‘Sir,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘that is very unpleasant to the feelings +of one in my position, as calculated to awaken prejudice; and I should +wish to leave immediately.’ + +‘If you are not shocked, are you not surprised, man?’ demanded the +Physician, warmly. + +The Chief Butler, erect and calm, replied in these memorable words. +‘Sir, Mr Merdle never was the gentleman, and no ungentlemanly act on +Mr Merdle’s part would surprise me. Is there anybody else I can send to +you, or any other directions I can give before I leave, respecting what +you would wish to be done?’ + +When Physician, after discharging himself of his trust up-stairs, +rejoined Bar in the street, he said no more of his interview with Mrs +Merdle than that he had not yet told her all, but that what he had told +her she had borne pretty well. Bar had devoted his leisure in the street +to the construction of a most ingenious man-trap for catching the whole +of his jury at a blow; having got that matter settled in his mind, +it was lucid on the late catastrophe, and they walked home slowly, +discussing it in every bearing. Before parting at the Physician’s door, +they both looked up at the sunny morning sky, into which the smoke of a +few early fires and the breath and voices of a few early stirrers were +peacefully rising, and then looked round upon the immense city, and +said, if all those hundreds and thousands of beggared people who were +yet asleep could only know, as they two spoke, the ruin that impended +over them, what a fearful cry against one miserable soul would go up to +Heaven! + +The report that the great man was dead, got about with astonishing +rapidity. At first, he was dead of all the diseases that ever were +known, and of several bran-new maladies invented with the speed of +Light to meet the demand of the occasion. He had concealed a dropsy from +infancy, he had inherited a large estate of water on the chest from his +grandfather, he had had an operation performed upon him every morning +of his life for eighteen years, he had been subject to the explosion of +important veins in his body after the manner of fireworks, he had had +something the matter with his lungs, he had had something the matter +with his heart, he had had something the matter with his brain. Five +hundred people who sat down to breakfast entirely uninformed on the +whole subject, believed before they had done breakfast, that they +privately and personally knew Physician to have said to Mr Merdle, ‘You +must expect to go out, some day, like the snuff of a candle;’ and that +they knew Mr Merdle to have said to Physician, ‘A man can die but once.’ +By about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, something the matter with the +brain, became the favourite theory against the field; and by twelve the +something had been distinctly ascertained to be ‘Pressure.’ + +Pressure was so entirely satisfactory to the public mind, and seemed to +make everybody so comfortable, that it might have lasted all day but for +Bar’s having taken the real state of the case into Court at half-past +nine. This led to its beginning to be currently whispered all over +London by about one, that Mr Merdle had killed himself. Pressure, +however, so far from being overthrown by the discovery, became a greater +favourite than ever. There was a general moralising upon Pressure, in +every street. All the people who had tried to make money and had not +been able to do it, said, There you were! You no sooner began to devote +yourself to the pursuit of wealth than you got Pressure. The idle people +improved the occasion in a similar manner. See, said they, what you +brought yourself to by work, work, work! You persisted in working, you +overdid it. Pressure came on, and you were done for! This consideration +was very potent in many quarters, but nowhere more so than among the +young clerks and partners who had never been in the slightest danger +of overdoing it. These, one and all, declared, quite piously, that they +hoped they would never forget the warning as long as they lived, and +that their conduct might be so regulated as to keep off Pressure, and +preserve them, a comfort to their friends, for many years. + +But, at about the time of High ‘Change, Pressure began to wane, and +appalling whispers to circulate, east, west, north, and south. At first +they were faint, and went no further than a doubt whether Mr Merdle’s +wealth would be found to be as vast as had been supposed; whether there +might not be a temporary difficulty in ‘realising’ it; whether there +might not even be a temporary suspension (say a month or so), on the +part of the wonderful Bank. As the whispers became louder, which they +did from that time every minute, they became more threatening. He had +sprung from nothing, by no natural growth or process that any one could +account for; he had been, after all, a low, ignorant fellow; he had been +a down-looking man, and no one had ever been able to catch his eye; +he had been taken up by all sorts of people in quite an unaccountable +manner; he had never had any money of his own, his ventures had been +utterly reckless, and his expenditure had been most enormous. In steady +progression, as the day declined, the talk rose in sound and purpose. +He had left a letter at the Baths addressed to his physician, and his +physician had got the letter, and the letter would be produced at the +Inquest on the morrow, and it would fall like a thunderbolt upon the +multitude he had deluded. Numbers of men in every profession and trade +would be blighted by his insolvency; old people who had been in easy +circumstances all their lives would have no place of repentance for +their trust in him but the workhouse; legions of women and children +would have their whole future desolated by the hand of this mighty +scoundrel. Every partaker of his magnificent feasts would be seen to +have been a sharer in the plunder of innumerable homes; every servile +worshipper of riches who had helped to set him on his pedestal, would +have done better to worship the Devil point-blank. So, the talk, lashed +louder and higher by confirmation on confirmation, and by edition after +edition of the evening papers, swelled into such a roar when night came, +as might have brought one to believe that a solitary watcher on the +gallery above the Dome of St Paul’s would have perceived the night air +to be laden with a heavy muttering of the name of Merdle, coupled with +every form of execration. + +For by that time it was known that the late Mr Merdle’s complaint +had been simply Forgery and Robbery. He, the uncouth object of such +wide-spread adulation, the sitter at great men’s feasts, the roc’s egg +of great ladies’ assemblies, the subduer of exclusiveness, the leveller +of pride, the patron of patrons, the bargain-driver with a Minister +for Lordships of the Circumlocution Office, the recipient of more +acknowledgment within some ten or fifteen years, at most, than had been +bestowed in England upon all peaceful public benefactors, and upon +all the leaders of all the Arts and Sciences, with all their works to +testify for them, during two centuries at least--he, the shining wonder, +the new constellation to be followed by the wise men bringing gifts, +until it stopped over a certain carrion at the bottom of a bath and +disappeared--was simply the greatest Forger and the greatest Thief that +ever cheated the gallows. + + + + +CHAPTER 26. Reaping the Whirlwind + + +With a precursory sound of hurried breath and hurried feet, Mr Pancks +rushed into Arthur Clennam’s Counting-house. The Inquest was over, the +letter was public, the Bank was broken, the other model structures of +straw had taken fire and were turned to smoke. The admired piratical +ship had blown up, in the midst of a vast fleet of ships of all rates, +and boats of all sizes; and on the deep was nothing but ruin; nothing +but burning hulls, bursting magazines, great guns self-exploded tearing +friends and neighbours to pieces, drowning men clinging to unseaworthy +spars and going down every minute, spent swimmers, floating dead, and +sharks. + +The usual diligence and order of the Counting-house at the Works were +overthrown. Unopened letters and unsorted papers lay strewn about the +desk. In the midst of these tokens of prostrated energy and dismissed +hope, the master of the Counting-house stood idle in his usual place, +with his arms crossed on the desk, and his head bowed down upon them. + +Mr Pancks rushed in and saw him, and stood still. In another minute, Mr +Pancks’s arms were on the desk, and Mr Pancks’s head was bowed down +upon them; and for some time they remained in these attitudes, idle and +silent, with the width of the little room between them. + +Mr Pancks was the first to lift up his head and speak. + +‘I persuaded you to it, Mr Clennam. I know it. Say what you will. You +can’t say more to me than I say to myself. You can’t say more than I +deserve.’ + +‘O, Pancks, Pancks!’ returned Clennam, ‘don’t speak of deserving. What +do I myself deserve!’ + +‘Better luck,’ said Pancks. + +‘I,’ pursued Clennam, without attending to him, ‘who have ruined my +partner! Pancks, Pancks, I have ruined Doyce! The honest, self-helpful, +indefatigable old man who has worked his way all through his life; +the man who has contended against so much disappointment, and who has +brought out of it such a good and hopeful nature; the man I have felt +so much for, and meant to be so true and useful to; I have ruined +him--brought him to shame and disgrace--ruined him, ruined him!’ + +The agony into which the reflection wrought his mind was so distressing +to see, that Mr Pancks took hold of himself by the hair of his head, and +tore it in desperation at the spectacle. + +‘Reproach me!’ cried Pancks. ‘Reproach me, sir, or I’ll do myself an +injury. Say,--You fool, you villain. Say,--Ass, how could you do it; +Beast, what did you mean by it! Catch hold of me somewhere. Say +something abusive to me!’ All the time, Mr Pancks was tearing at his +tough hair in a most pitiless and cruel manner. + +‘If you had never yielded to this fatal mania, Pancks,’ said Clennam, +more in commiseration than retaliation, ‘it would have been how much +better for you, and how much better for me!’ + +‘At me again, sir!’ cried Pancks, grinding his teeth in remorse. ‘At +me again!’ + +‘If you had never gone into those accursed calculations, and brought out +your results with such abominable clearness,’ groaned Clennam, ‘it would +have been how much better for you, Pancks, and how much better for me!’ + +‘At me again, sir!’ exclaimed Pancks, loosening his hold of his hair; +‘at me again, and again!’ + +Clennam, however, finding him already beginning to be pacified, had said +all he wanted to say, and more. He wrung his hand, only adding, ‘Blind +leaders of the blind, Pancks! Blind leaders of the blind! But Doyce, +Doyce, Doyce; my injured partner!’ That brought his head down on the +desk once more. + +Their former attitudes and their former silence were once more first +encroached upon by Pancks. + +‘Not been to bed, sir, since it began to get about. Been high and low, +on the chance of finding some hope of saving any cinders from the fire. +All in vain. All gone. All vanished.’ + +‘I know it,’ returned Clennam, ‘too well.’ + +Mr Pancks filled up a pause with a groan that came out of the very +depths of his soul. + +‘Only yesterday, Pancks,’ said Arthur; ‘only yesterday, Monday, I had +the fixed intention of selling, realising, and making an end of it.’ + +‘I can’t say as much for myself, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘Though it’s +wonderful how many people I’ve heard of, who were going to realise +yesterday, of all days in the three hundred and sixty-five, if it hadn’t +been too late!’ + +His steam-like breathings, usually droll in their effect, were more +tragic than so many groans: while from head to foot, he was in that +begrimed, besmeared, neglected state, that he might have been an +authentic portrait of Misfortune which could scarcely be discerned +through its want of cleaning. + +‘Mr Clennam, had you laid out--everything?’ He got over the break before +the last word, and also brought out the last word itself with great +difficulty. + +‘Everything.’ + +Mr Pancks took hold of his tough hair again, and gave it such a wrench +that he pulled out several prongs of it. After looking at these with an +eye of wild hatred, he put them in his pocket. + +‘My course,’ said Clennam, brushing away some tears that had been +silently dropping down his face, ‘must be taken at once. What wretched +amends I can make must be made. I must clear my unfortunate partner’s +reputation. I must retain nothing for myself. I must resign to our +creditors the power of management I have so much abused, and I must work +out as much of my fault--or crime--as is susceptible of being worked out +in the rest of my days.’ + +‘Is it impossible, sir, to tide over the present?’ + +‘Out of the question. Nothing can be tided over now, Pancks. The sooner +the business can pass out of my hands, the better for it. There are +engagements to be met, this week, which would bring the catastrophe +before many days were over, even if I would postpone it for a single day +by going on for that space, secretly knowing what I know. All last night +I thought of what I would do; what remains is to do it.’ + +‘Not entirely of yourself?’ said Pancks, whose face was as damp as if +his steam were turning into water as fast as he dismally blew it off. +‘Have some legal help.’ + +‘Perhaps I had better.’ + +‘Have Rugg.’ + +‘There is not much to do. He will do it as well as another.’ + +‘Shall I fetch Rugg, Mr Clennam?’ + +‘If you could spare the time, I should be much obliged to you.’ + +Mr Pancks put on his hat that moment, and steamed away to Pentonville. +While he was gone Arthur never raised his head from the desk, but +remained in that one position. + +Mr Pancks brought his friend and professional adviser, Mr Rugg, back +with him. Mr Rugg had had such ample experience, on the road, of Mr +Pancks’s being at that present in an irrational state of mind, that he +opened his professional mediation by requesting that gentleman to take +himself out of the way. Mr Pancks, crushed and submissive, obeyed. + +‘He is not unlike what my daughter was, sir, when we began the Breach of +Promise action of Rugg and Bawkins, in which she was Plaintiff,’ said +Mr Rugg. ‘He takes too strong and direct an interest in the case. His +feelings are worked upon. There is no getting on, in our profession, +with feelings worked upon, sir.’ + +As he pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat, he saw, in a side +glance or two, that a great change had come over his client. + +‘I am sorry to perceive, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘that you have been +allowing your own feelings to be worked upon. Now, pray don’t, pray +don’t. These losses are much to be deplored, sir, but we must look ‘em +in the face.’ + +‘If the money I have sacrificed had been all my own, Mr Rugg,’ sighed Mr +Clennam, ‘I should have cared far less.’ + +‘Indeed, sir?’ said Mr Rugg, rubbing his hands with a cheerful air. +‘You surprise me. That’s singular, sir. I have generally found, in my +experience, that it’s their own money people are most particular about. +I have seen people get rid of a good deal of other people’s money, and +bear it very well: very well indeed.’ + +With these comforting remarks, Mr Rugg seated himself on an office-stool +at the desk and proceeded to business. + +‘Now, Mr Clennam, by your leave, let us go into the matter. Let us see +the state of the case. The question is simple. The question is the +usual plain, straightforward, common-sense question. What can we do for +ourself? What can we do for ourself?’ + +‘This is not the question with me, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur. ‘You mistake +it in the beginning. It is, what can I do for my partner, how can I best +make reparation to him?’ + +‘I am afraid, sir, do you know,’ argued Mr Rugg persuasively, ‘that you +are still allowing your feeling to be worked upon. I _don’t_ like the +term “reparation,” sir, except as a lever in the hands of counsel. Will +you excuse my saying that I feel it my duty to offer you the caution, +that you really must not allow your feelings to be worked upon?’ + +‘Mr Rugg,’ said Clennam, nerving himself to go through with what he had +resolved upon, and surprising that gentleman by appearing, in his +despondency, to have a settled determination of purpose; ‘you give me +the impression that you will not be much disposed to adopt the course I +have made up my mind to take. If your disapproval of it should render +you unwilling to discharge such business as it necessitates, I am sorry +for it, and must seek other aid. But I will represent to you at once, +that to argue against it with me is useless.’ + +‘Good, sir,’ answered Mr Rugg, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Good, sir. +Since the business is to be done by some hands, let it be done by mine. +Such was my principle in the case of Rugg and Bawkins. Such is my +principle in most cases.’ + +Clennam then proceeded to state to Mr Rugg his fixed resolution. He told +Mr Rugg that his partner was a man of great simplicity and integrity, +and that in all he meant to do, he was guided above all things by a +knowledge of his partner’s character, and a respect for his feelings. He +explained that his partner was then absent on an enterprise of +importance, and that it particularly behoved himself publicly to accept +the blame of what he had rashly done, and publicly to exonerate his +partner from all participation in the responsibility of it, lest the +successful conduct of that enterprise should be endangered by the +slightest suspicion wrongly attaching to his partner’s honour and credit +in another country. He told Mr Rugg that to clear his partner morally, +to the fullest extent, and publicly and unreservedly to declare that he, +Arthur Clennam, of that Firm, had of his own sole act, and even +expressly against his partner’s caution, embarked its resources in the +swindles that had lately perished, was the only real atonement within +his power; was a better atonement to the particular man than it would be +to many men; and was therefore the atonement he had first to make. With +this view, his intention was to print a declaration to the foregoing +effect, which he had already drawn up; and, besides circulating it among +all who had dealings with the House, to advertise it in the public +papers. Concurrently with this measure (the description of which cost Mr +Rugg innumerable wry faces and great uneasiness in his limbs), he would +address a letter to all the creditors, exonerating his partner in a +solemn manner, informing them of the stoppage of the House until their +pleasure could be known and his partner communicated with, and humbly +submitting himself to their direction. If, through their consideration +for his partner’s innocence, the affairs could ever be got into such +train as that the business could be profitably resumed, and its present +downfall overcome, then his own share in it should revert to his +partner, as the only reparation he could make to him in money value for +the distress and loss he had unhappily brought upon him, and he himself, +at as small a salary as he could live upon, would ask to be allowed to +serve the business as a faithful clerk. + +Though Mr Rugg saw plainly there was no preventing this from being done, +still the wryness of his face and the uneasiness of his limbs so sorely +required the propitiation of a Protest, that he made one. ‘I offer no +objection, sir,’ said he, ‘I argue no point with you. I will carry out +your views, sir; but, under protest.’ Mr Rugg then stated, not without +prolixity, the heads of his protest. These were, in effect, because the +whole town, or he might say the whole country, was in the first madness +of the late discovery, and the resentment against the victims would be +very strong: those who had not been deluded being certain to wax +exceedingly wroth with them for not having been as wise as they were: +and those who had been deluded being certain to find excuses and reasons +for themselves, of which they were equally certain to see that other +sufferers were wholly devoid: not to mention the great probability of +every individual sufferer persuading himself, to his violent +indignation, that but for the example of all the other sufferers he +never would have put himself in the way of suffering. Because such a +declaration as Clennam’s, made at such a time, would certainly draw down +upon him a storm of animosity, rendering it impossible to calculate on +forbearance in the creditors, or on unanimity among them; and exposing +him a solitary target to a straggling cross-fire, which might bring him +down from half-a-dozen quarters at once. + +To all this Clennam merely replied that, granting the whole protest, +nothing in it lessened the force, or could lessen the force, of the +voluntary and public exoneration of his partner. He therefore, once +and for all, requested Mr Rugg’s immediate aid in getting the business +despatched. Upon that, Mr Rugg fell to work; and Arthur, retaining no +property to himself but his clothes and books, and a little loose +money, placed his small private banker’s-account with the papers of the +business. + +The disclosure was made, and the storm raged fearfully. Thousands of +people were wildly staring about for somebody alive to heap reproaches +on; and this notable case, courting publicity, set the living somebody +so much wanted, on a scaffold. When people who had nothing to do with +the case were so sensible of its flagrancy, people who lost money by it +could scarcely be expected to deal mildly with it. Letters of reproach +and invective showered in from the creditors; and Mr Rugg, who sat upon +the high stool every day and read them all, informed his client within a +week that he feared there were writs out. + +‘I must take the consequences of what I have done,’ said Clennam. ‘The +writs will find me here.’ + +On the very next morning, as he was turning in Bleeding Heart Yard by +Mrs Plornish’s corner, Mrs Plornish stood at the door waiting for him, +and mysteriously besought him to step into Happy Cottage. There he found +Mr Rugg. + +‘I thought I’d wait for you here. I wouldn’t go on to the Counting-house +this morning if I was you, sir.’ + +‘Why not, Mr Rugg?’ + +‘There are as many as five out, to my knowledge.’ + +‘It cannot be too soon over,’ said Clennam. ‘Let them take me at once.’ + +‘Yes, but,’ said Mr Rugg, getting between him and the door, ‘hear +reason, hear reason. They’ll take you soon enough, Mr Clennam, I don’t +doubt; but, hear reason. It almost always happens, in these cases, +that some insignificant matter pushes itself in front and makes much +of itself. Now, I find there’s a little one out--a mere Palace Court +jurisdiction--and I have reason to believe that a caption may be made +upon that. I wouldn’t be taken upon that.’ + +‘Why not?’ asked Clennam. + +‘I’d be taken on a full-grown one, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘It’s as well to +keep up appearances. As your professional adviser, I should prefer your +being taken on a writ from one of the Superior Courts, if you have no +objection to do me that favour. It looks better.’ + +‘Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, in his dejection, ‘my only wish is, that it +should be over. I will go on, and take my chance.’ + +‘Another word of reason, sir!’ cried Mr Rugg. ‘Now, this _is_ reason. +The other may be taste; but this is reason. If you should be taken on a +little one, sir, you would go to the Marshalsea. Now, you know what the +Marshalsea is. Very close. Excessively confined. Whereas in the King’s +Bench--’ Mr Rugg waved his right hand freely, as expressing abundance of +space. + +‘I would rather,’ said Clennam, ‘be taken to the Marshalsea than to any +other prison.’ + +‘Do you say so indeed, sir?’ returned Mr Rugg. ‘Then this is taste, too, +and we may be walking.’ + +He was a little offended at first, but he soon overlooked it. They +walked through the Yard to the other end. The Bleeding Hearts were more +interested in Arthur since his reverses than formerly; now regarding him +as one who was true to the place and had taken up his freedom. Many of +them came out to look after him, and to observe to one another, with +great unctuousness, that he was ‘pulled down by it.’ Mrs Plornish +and her father stood at the top of the steps at their own end, much +depressed and shaking their heads. + +There was nobody visibly in waiting when Arthur and Mr Rugg arrived +at the Counting-house. But an elderly member of the Jewish persuasion, +preserved in rum, followed them close, and looked in at the glass before +Mr Rugg had opened one of the day’s letters. ‘Oh!’ said Mr Rugg, +looking up. ‘How do you do? Step in--Mr Clennam, I think this is the +gentleman I was mentioning.’ + +This gentleman explained the object of his visit to be ‘a tyfling madder +ob bithznithz,’ and executed his legal function. + +‘Shall I accompany you, Mr Clennam?’ asked Mr Rugg politely, rubbing his +hands. + +‘I would rather go alone, thank you. Be so good as send me my clothes.’ +Mr Rugg in a light airy way replied in the affirmative, and shook hands +with him. He and his attendant then went down-stairs, got into the first +conveyance they found, and drove to the old gates. + +‘Where I little thought, Heaven forgive me,’ said Clennam to himself, +‘that I should ever enter thus!’ + +Mr Chivery was on the Lock, and Young John was in the Lodge: either +newly released from it, or waiting to take his own spell of duty. Both +were more astonished on seeing who the prisoner was, than one might have +thought turnkeys would have been. The elder Mr Chivery shook hands with +him in a shame-faced kind of way, and said, ‘I don’t call to mind, +sir, as I was ever less glad to see you.’ The younger Mr Chivery, more +distant, did not shake hands with him at all; he stood looking at him +in a state of indecision so observable that it even came within the +observation of Clennam with his heavy eyes and heavy heart. Presently +afterwards, Young John disappeared into the jail. + +As Clennam knew enough of the place to know that he was required to +remain in the Lodge a certain time, he took a seat in a corner, and +feigned to be occupied with the perusal of letters from his pocket. +They did not so engross his attention, but that he saw, with gratitude, +how the elder Mr Chivery kept the Lodge clear of prisoners; how he +signed to some, with his keys, not to come in, how he nudged others with +his elbows to go out, and how he made his misery as easy to him as he +could. + +Arthur was sitting with his eyes fixed on the floor, recalling the past, +brooding over the present, and not attending to either, when he felt +himself touched upon the shoulder. It was by Young John; and he said, +‘You can come now.’ + +He got up and followed Young John. When they had gone a step or two +within the inner iron-gate, Young John turned and said to him: + +‘You want a room. I have got you one.’ + +‘I thank you heartily.’ + +Young John turned again, and took him in at the old doorway, up the old +staircase, into the old room. Arthur stretched out his hand. Young John +looked at it, looked at him--sternly--swelled, choked, and said: + +‘I don’t know as I can. No, I find I can’t. But I thought you’d like the +room, and here it is for you.’ + +Surprise at this inconsistent behaviour yielded when he was gone (he +went away directly) to the feelings which the empty room awakened in +Clennam’s wounded breast, and to the crowding associations with the +one good and gentle creature who had sanctified it. Her absence in his +altered fortunes made it, and him in it, so very desolate and so much in +need of such a face of love and truth, that he turned against the +wall to weep, sobbing out, as his heart relieved itself, ‘O my Little +Dorrit!’ + + + + +CHAPTER 27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea + + +The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon striking +upon it, was unwontedly quiet. Arthur Clennam dropped into a solitary +arm-chair, itself as faded as any debtor in the jail, and yielded +himself to his thoughts. + +In the unnatural peace of having gone through the dreaded arrest, and +got there,--the first change of feeling which the prison most commonly +induced, and from which dangerous resting-place so many men had slipped +down to the depths of degradation and disgrace by so many ways,--he +could think of some passages in his life, almost as if he were removed +from them into another state of existence. Taking into account where he +was, the interest that had first brought him there when he had been free +to keep away, and the gentle presence that was equally inseparable from +the walls and bars about him and from the impalpable remembrances of his +later life which no walls or bars could imprison, it was not remarkable +that everything his memory turned upon should bring him round again to +Little Dorrit. Yet it was remarkable to him; not because of the fact +itself, but because of the reminder it brought with it, how much the +dear little creature had influenced his better resolutions. + +None of us clearly know to whom or to what we are indebted in this wise, +until some marked stop in the whirling wheel of life brings the right +perception with it. It comes with sickness, it comes with sorrow, it +comes with the loss of the dearly loved, it is one of the most frequent +uses of adversity. It came to Clennam in his adversity, strongly and +tenderly. ‘When I first gathered myself together,’ he thought, ‘and +set something like purpose before my jaded eyes, whom had I before me, +toiling on, for a good object’s sake, without encouragement, without +notice, against ignoble obstacles that would have turned an army of +received heroes and heroines? One weak girl! When I tried to conquer +my misplaced love, and to be generous to the man who was more fortunate +than I, though he should never know it or repay me with a gracious word, +in whom had I watched patience, self-denial, self-subdual, charitable +construction, the noblest generosity of the affections? In the same poor +girl! If I, a man, with a man’s advantages and means and energies, had +slighted the whisper in my heart, that if my father had erred, it was my +first duty to conceal the fault and to repair it, what youthful figure +with tender feet going almost bare on the damp ground, with spare hands +ever working, with its slight shape but half protected from the +sharp weather, would have stood before me to put me to shame? Little +Dorrit’s.’ So always as he sat alone in the faded chair, thinking. +Always, Little Dorrit. Until it seemed to him as if he met the reward of +having wandered away from her, and suffered anything to pass between him +and his remembrance of her virtues. + +His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery was put in a very +little way, without being turned towards him. + +‘I am off the Lock, Mr Clennam, and going out. Can I do anything for +you?’ + +‘Many thanks. Nothing.’ + +‘You’ll excuse me opening the door,’ said Mr Chivery; ‘but I couldn’t +make you hear.’ + +‘Did you knock?’ ‘Half-a-dozen times.’ + +Rousing himself, Clennam observed that the prison had awakened from its +noontide doze, that the inmates were loitering about the shady yard, and +that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours. + +‘Your things is come,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘and my son is going to carry +‘em up. I should have sent ‘em up but for his wishing to carry ‘em +himself. Indeed he would have ‘em himself, and so I couldn’t send ‘em +up. Mr Clennam, could I say a word to you?’ + +‘Pray come in,’ said Arthur; for Mr Chivery’s head was still put in at +the door a very little way, and Mr Chivery had but one ear upon him, +instead of both eyes. This was native delicacy in Mr Chivery--true +politeness; though his exterior had very much of a turnkey about it, and +not the least of a gentleman. + +‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Chivery, without advancing; ‘it’s no odds me +coming in. Mr Clennam, don’t you take no notice of my son (if you’ll +be so good) in case you find him cut up anyways difficult. My son has a +‘art, and my son’s ‘art is in the right place. Me and his mother knows +where to find it, and we find it sitiwated correct.’ + +With this mysterious speech, Mr Chivery took his ear away and shut the +door. He might have been gone ten minutes, when his son succeeded him. + +‘Here’s your portmanteau,’ he said to Arthur, putting it carefully down. + +‘It’s very kind of you. I am ashamed that you should have the trouble.’ + +He was gone before it came to that; but soon returned, saying exactly as +before, ‘Here’s your black box:’ which he also put down with care. + +‘I am very sensible of this attention. I hope we may shake hands now, Mr +John.’ + +Young John, however, drew back, turning his right wrist in a socket made +of his left thumb and middle-finger and said as he had said at first, +‘I don’t know as I can. No; I find I can’t!’ He then stood regarding the +prisoner sternly, though with a swelling humour in his eyes that looked +like pity. + +‘Why are you angry with me,’ said Clennam, ‘and yet so ready to do me +these kind services? There must be some mistake between us. If I have +done anything to occasion it I am sorry.’ + +‘No mistake, sir,’ returned John, turning the wrist backwards and +forwards in the socket, for which it was rather tight. ‘No mistake, sir, +in the feelings with which my eyes behold you at the present moment! If +I was at all fairly equal to your weight, Mr Clennam--which I am not; +and if you weren’t under a cloud--which you are; and if it wasn’t +against all rules of the Marshalsea--which it is; those feelings are +such, that they would stimulate me, more to having it out with you in +a Round on the present spot than to anything else I could name.’ + +Arthur looked at him for a moment in some wonder, and some little anger. +‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘A mistake, a mistake!’ Turning away, he sat down +with a heavy sigh in the faded chair again. + +Young John followed him with his eyes, and, after a short pause, cried +out, ‘I beg your pardon!’ + +‘Freely granted,’ said Clennam, waving his hand without raising his +sunken head. ‘Say no more. I am not worth it.’ + +‘This furniture, sir,’ said Young John in a voice of mild and soft +explanation, ‘belongs to me. I am in the habit of letting it out to +parties without furniture, that have the room. It an’t much, but it’s at +your service. Free, I mean. I could not think of letting you have it on +any other terms. You’re welcome to it for nothing.’ + +Arthur raised his head again to thank him, and to say he could +not accept the favour. John was still turning his wrist, and still +contending with himself in his former divided manner. + +‘What is the matter between us?’ said Arthur. + +‘I decline to name it, sir,’ returned Young John, suddenly turning loud +and sharp. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ + +Arthur looked at him again, in vain, for an explanation of his +behaviour. After a while, Arthur turned away his head again. Young John +said, presently afterwards, with the utmost mildness: + +‘The little round table, sir, that’s nigh your elbow, was--you know +whose--I needn’t mention him--he died a great gentleman. I bought it of +an individual that he gave it to, and that lived here after him. But the +individual wasn’t any ways equal to him. Most individuals would find it +hard to come up to his level.’ + +Arthur drew the little table nearer, rested his arm upon it, and kept it +there. + +‘Perhaps you may not be aware, sir,’ said Young John, ‘that I intruded +upon him when he was over here in London. On the whole he was of opinion +that it _was_ an intrusion, though he was so good as to ask me to sit +down and to inquire after father and all other old friends. Leastways +humblest acquaintances. He looked, to me, a good deal changed, and I +said so when I came back. I asked him if Miss Amy was well--’ + +‘And she was?’ + +‘I should have thought you would have known without putting the question +to such as me,’ returned Young John, after appearing to take a large +invisible pill. ‘Since you do put me the question, I am sorry I can’t +answer it. But the truth is, he looked upon the inquiry as a liberty, +and said, “What was that to me?” It was then I became quite aware I was +intruding: of which I had been fearful before. However, he spoke very +handsome afterwards; very handsome.’ + +They were both silent for several minutes: except that Young John +remarked, at about the middle of the pause, ‘He both spoke and acted +very handsome.’ + +It was again Young John who broke the silence by inquiring: + +‘If it’s not a liberty, how long may it be your intentions, sir, to go +without eating and drinking?’ + +‘I have not felt the want of anything yet,’ returned Clennam. ‘I have no +appetite just now.’ + +‘The more reason why you should take some support, sir,’ urged Young +John. ‘If you find yourself going on sitting here for hours and hours +partaking of no refreshment because you have no appetite, why then you +should and must partake of refreshment without an appetite. I’m going to +have tea in my own apartment. If it’s not a liberty, please to come and +take a cup. Or I can bring a tray here in two minutes.’ + +Feeling that Young John would impose that trouble on himself if he +refused, and also feeling anxious to show that he bore in mind both +the elder Mr Chivery’s entreaty, and the younger Mr Chivery’s apology, +Arthur rose and expressed his willingness to take a cup of tea in Mr +John’s apartment. Young John locked his door for him as they went out, +slided the key into his pocket with great dexterity, and led the way to +his own residence. + +It was at the top of the house nearest to the gateway. It was the room +to which Clennam had hurried on the day when the enriched family had +left the prison for ever, and where he had lifted her insensible from +the floor. He foresaw where they were going as soon as their feet +touched the staircase. The room was so far changed that it was papered +now, and had been repainted, and was far more comfortably furnished; but +he could recall it just as he had seen it in that single glance, when he +raised her from the ground and carried her down to the carriage. + +Young John looked hard at him, biting his fingers. + +‘I see you recollect the room, Mr Clennam?’ + +‘I recollect it well, Heaven bless her!’ + +Oblivious of the tea, Young John continued to bite his fingers and to +look at his visitor, as long as his visitor continued to glance about +the room. Finally, he made a start at the teapot, gustily rattled a +quantity of tea into it from a canister, and set off for the common +kitchen to fill it with hot water. + +The room was so eloquent to Clennam in the changed circumstances of his +return to the miserable Marshalsea; it spoke to him so mournfully of +her, and of his loss of her; that it would have gone hard with him to +resist it, even though he had not been alone. Alone, he did not try. +He had his hand on the insensible wall as tenderly as if it had been +herself that he touched, and pronounced her name in a low voice. He +stood at the window, looking over the prison-parapet with its grim +spiked border, and breathed a benediction through the summer haze +towards the distant land where she was rich and prosperous. + +Young John was some time absent, and, when he came back, showed that he +had been outside by bringing with him fresh butter in a cabbage leaf, +some thin slices of boiled ham in another cabbage leaf, and a little +basket of water-cresses and salad herbs. When these were arranged upon +the table to his satisfaction, they sat down to tea. + +Clennam tried to do honour to the meal, but unavailingly. The ham +sickened him, the bread seemed to turn to sand in his mouth. He could +force nothing upon himself but a cup of tea. + +‘Try a little something green,’ said Young John, handing him the basket. + +He took a sprig or so of water-cress, and tried again; but the bread +turned to a heavier sand than before, and the ham (though it was good +enough of itself) seemed to blow a faint simoom of ham through the whole +Marshalsea. + +‘Try a little more something green, sir,’ said Young John; and again +handed the basket. + +It was so like handing green meat into the cage of a dull imprisoned +bird, and John had so evidently brought the little basket as a handful +of fresh relief from the stale hot paving-stones and bricks of the jail, +that Clennam said, with a smile, ‘It was very kind of you to think of +putting this between the wires; but I cannot even get this down to-day.’ + +As if the difficulty were contagious, Young John soon pushed away his +own plate, and fell to folding the cabbage-leaf that had contained the +ham. When he had folded it into a number of layers, one over another, +so that it was small in the palm of his hand, he began to flatten it +between both his hands, and to eye Clennam attentively. + +‘I wonder,’ he at length said, compressing his green packet with some +force, ‘that if it’s not worth your while to take care of yourself for +your own sake, it’s not worth doing for some one else’s.’ + +‘Truly,’ returned Arthur, with a sigh and a smile, ‘I don’t know for +whose.’ + +‘Mr Clennam,’ said John, warmly, ‘I am surprised that a gentleman who +is capable of the straightforwardness that you are capable of, should be +capable of the mean action of making me such an answer. Mr Clennam, I am +surprised that a gentleman who is capable of having a heart of his own, +should be capable of the heartlessness of treating mine in that way. I +am astonished at it, sir. Really and truly I am astonished!’ + +Having got upon his feet to emphasise his concluding words, Young John +sat down again, and fell to rolling his green packet on his right leg; +never taking his eyes off Clennam, but surveying him with a fixed look +of indignant reproach. + +‘I had got over it, sir,’ said John. ‘I had conquered it, knowing that +it _must_ be conquered, and had come to the resolution to think no more +about it. I shouldn’t have given my mind to it again, I hope, if to this +prison you had not been brought, and in an hour unfortunate for me, +this day!’ (In his agitation Young John adopted his mother’s powerful +construction of sentences.) ‘When you first came upon me, sir, in the +Lodge, this day, more as if a Upas tree had been made a capture of than +a private defendant, such mingled streams of feelings broke loose again +within me, that everything was for the first few minutes swept away +before them, and I was going round and round in a vortex. I got out of +it. I struggled, and got out of it. If it was the last word I had to +speak, against that vortex with my utmost powers I strove, and out of it +I came. I argued that if I had been rude, apologies was due, and those +apologies without a question of demeaning, I did make. And now, when +I’ve been so wishful to show that one thought is next to being a holy +one with me and goes before all others--now, after all, you dodge me +when I ever so gently hint at it, and throw me back upon myself. For, do +not, sir,’ said Young John, ‘do not be so base as to deny that dodge you +do, and thrown me back upon myself you have!’ + +All amazement, Arthur gazed at him like one lost, only saying, ‘What is +it? What do you mean, John?’ But, John, being in that state of mind in +which nothing would seem to be more impossible to a certain class of +people than the giving of an answer, went ahead blindly. + +‘I hadn’t,’ John declared, ‘no, I hadn’t, and I never had the +audaciousness to think, I am sure, that all was anything but lost. I +hadn’t, no, why should I say I hadn’t if I ever had, any hope that it +was possible to be so blest, not after the words that passed, not even +if barriers insurmountable had not been raised! But is that a reason why +I am to have no memory, why I am to have no thoughts, why I am to have +no sacred spots, nor anything?’ + +‘What can you mean?’ cried Arthur. + +‘It’s all very well to trample on it, sir,’ John went on, scouring a +very prairie of wild words, ‘if a person can make up his mind to be +guilty of the action. It’s all very well to trample on it, but it’s +there. It may be that it couldn’t be trampled upon if it wasn’t there. +But that doesn’t make it gentlemanly, that doesn’t make it honourable, +that doesn’t justify throwing a person back upon himself after he has +struggled and strived out of himself like a butterfly. The world may +sneer at a turnkey, but he’s a man--when he isn’t a woman, which among +female criminals he’s expected to be.’ + +Ridiculous as the incoherence of his talk was, there was yet a +truthfulness in Young John’s simple, sentimental character, and a sense +of being wounded in some very tender respect, expressed in his burning +face and in the agitation of his voice and manner, which Arthur must +have been cruel to disregard. He turned his thoughts back to the +starting-point of this unknown injury; and in the meantime Young John, +having rolled his green packet pretty round, cut it carefully into three +pieces, and laid it on a plate as if it were some particular delicacy. + +‘It seems to me just possible,’ said Arthur, when he had retraced the +conversation to the water-cresses and back again, ‘that you have made +some reference to Miss Dorrit.’ + +‘It is just possible, sir,’ returned John Chivery. + +‘I don’t understand it. I hope I may not be so unlucky as to make you +think I mean to offend you again, for I never have meant to offend you +yet, when I say I don’t understand it.’ + +‘Sir,’ said Young John, ‘will you have the perfidy to deny that you know +and long have known that I felt towards Miss Dorrit, call it not the +presumption of love, but adoration and sacrifice?’ + +‘Indeed, John, I will not have any perfidy if I know it; why you should +suspect me of it I am at a loss to think. Did you ever hear from Mrs +Chivery, your mother, that I went to see her once?’ + +‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘Never heard of such a thing.’ + +‘But I did. Can you imagine why?’ + +‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘I can’t imagine why.’ + +‘I will tell you. I was solicitous to promote Miss Dorrit’s happiness; +and if I could have supposed that Miss Dorrit returned your affection--’ + +Poor John Chivery turned crimson to the tips of his ears. ‘Miss Dorrit +never did, sir. I wish to be honourable and true, so far as in my humble +way I can, and I would scorn to pretend for a moment that she ever did, +or that she ever led me to believe she did; no, nor even that it was +ever to be expected in any cool reason that she would or could. She was +far above me in all respects at all times. As likewise,’ added John, +‘similarly was her gen-teel family.’ + +His chivalrous feeling towards all that belonged to her made him so very +respectable, in spite of his small stature and his rather weak legs, and +his very weak hair, and his poetical temperament, that a Goliath might +have sat in his place demanding less consideration at Arthur’s hands. + +‘You speak, John,’ he said, with cordial admiration, ‘like a Man.’ + +‘Well, sir,’ returned John, brushing his hand across his eyes, ‘then I +wish you’d do the same.’ + +He was quick with this unexpected retort, and it again made Arthur +regard him with a wondering expression of face. + +‘Leastways,’ said John, stretching his hand across the tea-tray, ‘if too +strong a remark, withdrawn! But, why not, why not? When I say to you, +Mr Clennam, take care of yourself for some one else’s sake, why not be +open, though a turnkey? Why did I get you the room which I knew you’d +like best? Why did I carry up your things? Not that I found ‘em heavy; +I don’t mention ‘em on that accounts; far from it. Why have I cultivated +you in the manner I have done since the morning? On the ground of your +own merits? No. They’re very great, I’ve no doubt at all; but not on the +ground of them. Another’s merits have had their weight, and have had far +more weight with Me. Then why not speak free?’ + +‘Unaffectedly, John,’ said Clennam, ‘you are so good a fellow and I have +so true a respect for your character, that if I have appeared to be less +sensible than I really am of the fact that the kind services you have +rendered me to-day are attributable to my having been trusted by +Miss Dorrit as her friend--I confess it to be a fault, and I ask your +forgiveness.’ + +‘Oh! why not,’ John repeated with returning scorn, ‘why not speak free!’ + +‘I declare to you,’ returned Arthur, ‘that I do not understand you. +Look at me. Consider the trouble I have been in. Is it likely that I +would wilfully add to my other self-reproaches, that of being ungrateful +or treacherous to you. I do not understand you.’ + +John’s incredulous face slowly softened into a face of doubt. He rose, +backed into the garret-window of the room, beckoned Arthur to come +there, and stood looking at him thoughtfully. + +‘Mr Clennam, do you mean to say that you don’t know?’ + +‘What, John?’ + +‘Lord,’ said Young John, appealing with a gasp to the spikes on the +wall. ‘He says, What!’ + +Clennam looked at the spikes, and looked at John; and looked at the +spikes, and looked at John. + +‘He says What! And what is more,’ exclaimed Young John, surveying him in +a doleful maze, ‘he appears to mean it! Do you see this window, sir?’ + +‘Of course I see this window.’ + +‘See this room?’ + +‘Why, of course I see this room.’ + +‘That wall opposite, and that yard down below? They have all been +witnesses of it, from day to day, from night to night, from week to +week, from month to month. For how often have I seen Miss Dorrit here +when she has not seen me!’ + +‘Witnesses of what?’ said Clennam. + +‘Of Miss Dorrit’s love.’ + +‘For whom?’ + +‘You,’ said John. And touched him with the back of his hand upon the +breast, and backed to his chair, and sat down on it with a pale face, +holding the arms, and shaking his head at him. + +If he had dealt Clennam a heavy blow, instead of laying that light touch +upon him, its effect could not have been to shake him more. He stood +amazed; his eyes looking at John; his lips parted, and seeming now and +then to form the word ‘Me!’ without uttering it; his hands dropped at +his sides; his whole appearance that of a man who has been awakened from +sleep, and stupefied by intelligence beyond his full comprehension. + +‘Me!’ he at length said aloud. + +‘Ah!’ groaned Young John. ‘You!’ + +He did what he could to muster a smile, and returned, ‘Your fancy. You +are completely mistaken.’ + +‘I mistaken, sir!’ said Young John. ‘_I_ completely mistaken on that +subject! No, Mr Clennam, don’t tell me so. On any other, if you like, +for I don’t set up to be a penetrating character, and am well aware of +my own deficiencies. But, _I_ mistaken on a point that has caused me +more smart in my breast than a flight of savages’ arrows could have +done! _I_ mistaken on a point that almost sent me into my grave, as +I sometimes wished it would, if the grave could only have been made +compatible with the tobacco-business and father and mother’s feelings! I +mistaken on a point that, even at the present moment, makes me take out +my pocket-handkerchief like a great girl, as people say: though I am sure +I don’t know why a great girl should be a term of reproach, for every +rightly constituted male mind loves ‘em great and small. Don’t tell me +so, don’t tell me so!’ + +Still highly respectable at bottom, though absurd enough upon the +surface, Young John took out his pocket-handkerchief with a genuine +absence both of display and concealment, which is only to be seen in +a man with a great deal of good in him, when he takes out his +pocket-handkerchief for the purpose of wiping his eyes. Having dried +them, and indulged in the harmless luxury of a sob and a sniff, he put +it up again. + +The touch was still in its influence so like a blow that Arthur could +not get many words together to close the subject with. He assured John +Chivery when he had returned his handkerchief to his pocket, that he +did all honour to his disinterestedness and to the fidelity of his +remembrance of Miss Dorrit. As to the impression on his mind, of which +he had just relieved it--here John interposed, and said, ‘No impression! +Certainty!’--as to that, they might perhaps speak of it at another time, +but would say no more now. Feeling low-spirited and weary, he would go +back to his room, with John’s leave, and come out no more that night. +John assented, and he crept back in the shadow of the wall to his own +lodging. + +The feeling of the blow was still so strong upon him that, when the +dirty old woman was gone whom he found sitting on the stairs outside +his door, waiting to make his bed, and who gave him to understand while +doing it, that she had received her instructions from Mr Chivery, ‘not +the old ‘un but the young ‘un,’ he sat down in the faded arm-chair, +pressing his head between his hands, as if he had been stunned. Little +Dorrit love him! More bewildering to him than his misery, far. + +Consider the improbability. He had been accustomed to call her his +child, and his dear child, and to invite her confidence by dwelling upon +the difference in their respective ages, and to speak of himself as one +who was turning old. Yet she might not have thought him old. Something +reminded him that he had not thought himself so, until the roses had +floated away upon the river. + +He had her two letters among other papers in his box, and he took them +out and read them. There seemed to be a sound in them like the sound +of her sweet voice. It fell upon his ear with many tones of tenderness, +that were not insusceptible of the new meaning. Now it was that the +quiet desolation of her answer, ‘No, No, No,’ made to him that night +in that very room--that night when he had been shown the dawn of her +altered fortune, and when other words had passed between them which he +had been destined to remember in humiliation and a prisoner, rushed into +his mind. + +Consider the improbability. + +But it had a preponderating tendency, when considered, to become +fainter. There was another and a curious inquiry of his own heart’s that +concurrently became stronger. In the reluctance he had felt to believe +that she loved any one; in his desire to set that question at rest; in +a half-formed consciousness he had had that there would be a kind of +nobleness in his helping her love for any one, was there no suppressed +something on his own side that he had hushed as it arose? Had he ever +whispered to himself that he must not think of such a thing as her +loving him, that he must not take advantage of her gratitude, that he +must keep his experience in remembrance as a warning and reproof; +that he must regard such youthful hopes as having passed away, as his +friend’s dead daughter had passed away; that he must be steady in saying +to himself that the time had gone by him, and he was too saddened and +old? + +He had kissed her when he raised her from the ground on the day when she +had been so consistently and expressively forgotten. Quite as he might +have kissed her, if she had been conscious? No difference? + +The darkness found him occupied with these thoughts. The darkness also +found Mr and Mrs Plornish knocking at his door. They brought with them a +basket, filled with choice selections from that stock in trade which met +with such a quick sale and produced such a slow return. Mrs Plornish was +affected to tears. Mr Plornish amiably growled, in his philosophical but +not lucid manner, that there was ups you see, and there was downs. It +was in vain to ask why ups, why downs; there they was, you know. He had +heerd it given for a truth that accordin’ as the world went round, which +round it did rewolve undoubted, even the best of gentlemen must take his +turn of standing with his ed upside down and all his air a flying +the wrong way into what you might call Space. Wery well then. What +Mr Plornish said was, wery well then. That gentleman’s ed would come +up-ards when his turn come, that gentleman’s air would be a pleasure to +look upon being all smooth again, and wery well then! + +It has been already stated that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, +wept. It further happened that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, +was intelligible. It may have arisen out of her softened state of mind, +out of her sex’s wit, out of a woman’s quick association of ideas, +or out of a woman’s no association of ideas, but it further happened +somehow that Mrs Plornish’s intelligibility displayed itself upon the +very subject of Arthur’s meditations. + +‘The way father has been talking about you, Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs +Plornish, ‘you hardly would believe. It’s made him quite poorly. As +to his voice, this misfortune has took it away. You know what a sweet +singer father is; but he couldn’t get a note out for the children at +tea, if you’ll credit what I tell you.’ + +While speaking, Mrs Plornish shook her head, and wiped her eyes, and +looked retrospectively about the room. + +‘As to Mr Baptist,’ pursued Mrs Plornish, ‘whatever he’ll do when he +comes to know of it, I can’t conceive nor yet imagine. He’d have been +here before now, you may be sure, but that he’s away on confidential +business of your own. The persevering manner in which he follows up that +business, and gives himself no rest from it--it really do,’ said +Mrs Plornish, winding up in the Italian manner, ‘as I say to him, +Mooshattonisha padrona.’ + +Though not conceited, Mrs Plornish felt that she had turned this Tuscan +sentence with peculiar elegance. Mr Plornish could not conceal his +exultation in her accomplishments as a linguist. + +‘But what I say is, Mr Clennam,’ the good woman went on, ‘there’s always +something to be thankful for, as I am sure you will yourself admit. +Speaking in this room, it’s not hard to think what the present something +is. It’s a thing to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is not +here to know it.’ + +Arthur thought she looked at him with particular expression. + +‘It’s a thing,’ reiterated Mrs Plornish, ‘to be thankful for, indeed, +that Miss Dorrit is far away. It’s to be hoped she is not likely to hear +of it. If she had been here to see it, sir, it’s not to be doubted +that the sight of you,’ Mrs Plornish repeated those words--‘not to be +doubted, that the sight of you--in misfortune and trouble, would have +been almost too much for her affectionate heart. There’s nothing I can +think of, that would have touched Miss Dorrit so bad as that.’ + +Of a certainty Mrs Plornish did look at him now, with a sort of +quivering defiance in her friendly emotion. + +‘Yes!’ said she. ‘And it shows what notice father takes, though at his +time of life, that he says to me this afternoon, which Happy Cottage +knows I neither make it up nor any ways enlarge, “Mary, it’s much to +be rejoiced in that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” Those +were father’s words. Father’s own words was, “Much to be rejoiced in, +Mary, that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” I says to +father then, I says to him, “Father, you are right!” That,’ Mrs Plornish +concluded, with the air of a very precise legal witness, ‘is what passed +betwixt father and me. And I tell you nothing but what did pass betwixt +me and father.’ + +Mr Plornish, as being of a more laconic temperament, embraced this +opportunity of interposing with the suggestion that she should now leave +Mr Clennam to himself. ‘For, you see,’ said Mr Plornish, gravely, ‘I +know what it is, old gal;’ repeating that valuable remark several times, +as if it appeared to him to include some great moral secret. Finally, +the worthy couple went away arm in arm. + +Little Dorrit, Little Dorrit. Again, for hours. Always Little Dorrit! + + +Happily, if it ever had been so, it was over, and better over. Granted +that she had loved him, and he had known it and had suffered himself +to love her, what a road to have led her away upon--the road that would +have brought her back to this miserable place! He ought to be much +comforted by the reflection that she was quit of it forever; that she +was, or would soon be, married (vague rumours of her father’s projects +in that direction had reached Bleeding Heart Yard, with the news of her +sister’s marriage); and that the Marshalsea gate had shut for ever on +all those perplexed possibilities of a time that was gone. + +Dear Little Dorrit. + +Looking back upon his own poor story, she was its vanishing-point. Every +thing in its perspective led to her innocent figure. He had travelled +thousands of miles towards it; previous unquiet hopes and doubts had +worked themselves out before it; it was the centre of the interest +of his life; it was the termination of everything that was good and +pleasant in it; beyond, there was nothing but mere waste and darkened +sky. + +As ill at ease as on the first night of his lying down to sleep within +those dreary walls, he wore the night out with such thoughts. What time +Young John lay wrapt in peaceful slumber, after composing and arranging +the following monumental inscription on his pillow-- + + + STRANGER! + RESPECT THE TOMB OF + JOHN CHIVERY, JUNIOR, + WHO DIED AT AN ADVANCED AGE + NOT NECESSARY TO MENTION. + HE ENCOUNTERED HIS RIVAL IN A DISTRESSED STATE, + AND FELT INCLINED + TO HAVE A ROUND WITH HIM; + BUT, FOR THE SAKE OF THE LOVED ONE, + CONQUERED THOSE FEELINGS OF BITTERNESS, AND BECAME + MAGNANIMOUS. + + + + +CHAPTER 28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea + + +The opinion of the community outside the prison gates bore hard on +Clennam as time went on, and he made no friends among the community +within. Too depressed to associate with the herd in the yard, who got +together to forget their cares; too retiring and too unhappy to join in +the poor socialities of the tavern; he kept his own room, and was held +in distrust. Some said he was proud; some objected that he was +sullen and reserved; some were contemptuous of him, for that he was a +poor-spirited dog who pined under his debts. The whole population were +shy of him on these various counts of indictment, but especially the +last, which involved a species of domestic treason; and he soon became +so confirmed in his seclusion, that his only time for walking up and +down was when the evening Club were assembled at their songs and toasts +and sentiments, and when the yard was nearly left to the women and +children. + +Imprisonment began to tell upon him. He knew that he idled and moped. +After what he had known of the influences of imprisonment within the +four small walls of the very room he occupied, this consciousness made +him afraid of himself. Shrinking from the observation of other men, and +shrinking from his own, he began to change very sensibly. Anybody might +see that the shadow of the wall was dark upon him. + +One day when he might have been some ten or twelve weeks in jail, and +when he had been trying to read and had not been able to release even +the imaginary people of the book from the Marshalsea, a footstep stopped +at his door, and a hand tapped at it. He arose and opened it, and an +agreeable voice accosted him with ‘How do you do, Mr Clennam? I hope I +am not unwelcome in calling to see you.’ + +It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He looked very +good-natured and prepossessing, though overpoweringly gay and free, in +contrast with the squalid prison. + +‘You are surprised to see me, Mr Clennam,’ he said, taking the seat +which Clennam offered him. + +‘I must confess to being much surprised.’ + +‘Not disagreeably, I hope?’ + +‘By no means.’ + +‘Thank you. Frankly,’ said the engaging young Barnacle, ‘I have been +excessively sorry to hear that you were under the necessity of a +temporary retirement here, and I hope (of course as between two private +gentlemen) that our place has had nothing to do with it?’ + +‘Your office?’ + +‘Our Circumlocution place.’ + +‘I cannot charge any part of my reverses upon that remarkable +establishment.’ + +‘Upon my life,’ said the vivacious young Barnacle, ‘I am heartily glad to +know it. It is quite a relief to me to hear you say it. I should have +so exceedingly regretted our place having had anything to do with your +difficulties.’ + +Clennam again assured him that he absolved it of the responsibility. + +‘That’s right,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I am very happy to hear it. I was +rather afraid in my own mind that we might have helped to floor you, +because there is no doubt that it is our misfortune to do that kind +of thing now and then. We don’t want to do it; but if men will be +gravelled, why--we can’t help it.’ + +‘Without giving an unqualified assent to what you say,’ returned Arthur, +gloomily, ‘I am much obliged to you for your interest in me.’ + +‘No, but really! Our place is,’ said the easy young Barnacle, ‘the most +inoffensive place possible. You’ll say we are a humbug. I won’t say +we are not; but all that sort of thing is intended to be, and must be. +Don’t you see?’ + +‘I do not,’ said Clennam. + +‘You don’t regard it from the right point of view. It is the point of +view that is the essential thing. Regard our place from the point of +view that we only ask you to leave us alone, and we are as capital a +Department as you’ll find anywhere.’ + +‘Is your place there to be left alone?’ asked Clennam. + +‘You exactly hit it,’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It is there with the express +intention that everything shall be left alone. That is what it means. +That is what it’s for. No doubt there’s a certain form to be kept up +that it’s for something else, but it’s only a form. Why, good Heaven, +we are nothing but forms! Think what a lot of our forms you have gone +through. And you have never got any nearer to an end?’ + +‘Never,’ said Clennam. + +‘Look at it from the right point of view, and there you have +us--official and effectual. It’s like a limited game of cricket. A field +of outsiders are always going in to bowl at the Public Service, and we +block the balls.’ + +Clennam asked what became of the bowlers? The airy young Barnacle +replied that they grew tired, got dead beat, got lamed, got their backs +broken, died off, gave it up, went in for other games. + +‘And this occasions me to congratulate myself again,’ he pursued, +‘on the circumstance that our place has had nothing to do with your +temporary retirement. It very easily might have had a hand in it; +because it is undeniable that we are sometimes a most unlucky place, in +our effects upon people who will not leave us alone. Mr Clennam, I am +quite unreserved with you. As between yourself and myself, I know I may +be. I was so, when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us +alone; because I perceived that you were inexperienced and sanguine, and +had--I hope you’ll not object to my saying--some simplicity?’ + +‘Not at all.’ + +‘Some simplicity. Therefore I felt what a pity it was, and I went out +of my way to hint to you (which really was not official, but I never am +official when I can help it) something to the effect that if I were you, +I wouldn’t bother myself. However, you did bother yourself, and you have +since bothered yourself. Now, don’t do it any more.’ + +‘I am not likely to have the opportunity,’ said Clennam. + +‘Oh yes, you are! You’ll leave here. Everybody leaves here. There are no +ends of ways of leaving here. Now, don’t come back to us. That entreaty +is the second object of my call. Pray, don’t come back to us. Upon my +honour,’ said Ferdinand in a very friendly and confiding way, ‘I shall +be greatly vexed if you don’t take warning by the past and keep away +from us.’ + +‘And the invention?’ said Clennam. + +‘My good fellow,’ returned Ferdinand, ‘if you’ll excuse the freedom of +that form of address, nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody +cares twopence-halfpenny about it.’ + +‘Nobody in the Office, that is to say?’ + +‘Nor out of it. Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any +invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone. +You have no idea how the Genius of the country (overlook the +Parliamentary nature of the phrase, and don’t be bored by it) tends +to being left alone. Believe me, Mr Clennam,’ said the sprightly young +Barnacle in his pleasantest manner, ‘our place is not a wicked Giant to +be charged at full tilt; but only a windmill showing you, as it grinds +immense quantities of chaff, which way the country wind blows.’ + +‘If I could believe that,’ said Clennam, ‘it would be a dismal prospect +for all of us.’ + +‘Oh! Don’t say so!’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It’s all right. We must have +humbug, we all like humbug, we couldn’t get on without humbug. A little +humbug, and a groove, and everything goes on admirably, if you leave it +alone.’ + +With this hopeful confession of his faith as the head of the rising +Barnacles who were born of woman, to be followed under a variety of +watchwords which they utterly repudiated and disbelieved, Ferdinand +rose. Nothing could be more agreeable than his frank and courteous +bearing, or adapted with a more gentlemanly instinct to the +circumstances of his visit. + +‘Is it fair to ask,’ he said, as Clennam gave him his hand with a real +feeling of thankfulness for his candour and good-humour, ‘whether it +is true that our late lamented Merdle is the cause of this passing +inconvenience?’ + +‘I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.’ + +‘He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,’ said Ferdinand +Barnacle. + +Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was +silent. + +‘A consummate rascal, of course,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but remarkably +clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a +master of humbug. Knew people so well--got over them so completely--did +so much with them!’ + +In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration. + +‘I hope,’ said Arthur, ‘that he and his dupes may be a warning to people +not to have so much done with them again.’ + +‘My dear Mr Clennam,’ returned Ferdinand, laughing, ‘have you really +such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as +genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but +I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the +beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of +governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made +of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like +our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,’ said Ferdinand +politely, ‘exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what +appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to +find such a case; but they don’t invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope +that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud +will have given place to sunshine. Don’t come a step beyond the door. I +know the way out perfectly. Good day!’ + +With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went +down-stairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the +front court-yard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble +kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly +answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about +their statesmanship. + +He must have passed Mr Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two +afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an +elderly Phoebus. + +‘How do you do to-day, sir?’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Is there any little thing I +can do for you to-day, sir?’ + +‘No, I thank you.’ + +Mr Rugg’s enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper’s +enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman’s enjoyment of a +heavy wash, or a dustman’s enjoyment of an overflowing dust-bin, or any +other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business. + +‘I still look round, from time to time, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, cheerfully, +‘to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate. +They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have +expected.’ + +He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of +congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a +little. + +‘As thick,’ repeated Mr Rugg, ‘as we could reasonably have expected. +Quite a shower-bath of ‘em. I don’t often intrude upon you now, when I +look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if +you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here +pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,’ +asked Mr Rugg, coaxingly, ‘for me to offer an observation?’ + +‘As seasonable a time as any other.’ + +‘Hum! Public opinion, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘has been busy with you.’ + +‘I don’t doubt it.’ + +‘Might it not be advisable, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, more coaxingly yet, ‘now +to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion? +We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.’ + +‘I cannot set myself right with it, Mr Rugg, and have no business to +expect that I ever shall.’ + +‘Don’t say that, sir, don’t say that. The cost of being moved to the +Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that +you ought to be there, why--really--’ + +‘I thought you had settled, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, ‘that my +determination to remain here was a matter of taste.’ + +‘Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That’s the +Question.’ Mr Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic. +‘I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive +affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a +pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping. +I can’t tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I +heard comments made upon it last night in a Parlour frequented by what +I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best +legal company--I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear. +They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My +daughter (but a woman, you’ll say: yet still with a feeling for these +things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff +in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great +surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of +us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn’t a trifling +concession to that opinion be--Come, sir,’ said Rugg, ‘I will put it on +the lowest ground of argument, and say, Amiable?’ + +Arthur’s thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the +question remained unanswered. + +‘As to myself, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced +him to a state of indecision, ‘it is a principle of mine not to consider +myself when a client’s inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your +considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I +should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it +is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on +a better standing with my connection, if you went to the Bench. Don’t +let that influence you, sir. I merely state the fact.’ + +So errant had the prisoner’s attention already grown in solitude and +dejection, and so accustomed had it become to commune with only one +silent figure within the ever-frowning walls, that Clennam had to shake +off a kind of stupor before he could look at Mr Rugg, recall the thread +of his talk, and hurriedly say, ‘I am unchanged, and unchangeable, in my +decision. Pray, let it be; let it be!’ Mr Rugg, without concealing that +he was nettled and mortified, replied: + +‘Oh! Beyond a doubt, sir. I have travelled out of the record, sir, I am +aware, in putting the point to you. But really, when I hear it remarked +in several companies, and in very good company, that however worthy of a +foreigner, it is not worthy of the spirit of an Englishman to remain in +the Marshalsea when the glorious liberties of his island home admit +of his removal to the Bench, I thought I would depart from the narrow +professional line marked out to me, and mention it. Personally,’ said Mr +Rugg, ‘I have no opinion on the topic.’ + +‘That’s well,’ returned Arthur. + +‘Oh! None at all, sir!’ said Mr Rugg. ‘If I had, I should have been +unwilling, some minutes ago, to see a client of mine visited in this +place by a gentleman of a high family riding a saddle-horse. But it was +not my business. If I had, I might have wished to be now empowered to +mention to another gentleman, a gentleman of military exterior at +present waiting in the Lodge, that my client had never intended to +remain here, and was on the eve of removal to a superior abode. But my +course as a professional machine is clear; I have nothing to do with it. +Is it your good pleasure to see the gentleman, sir?’ + +‘Who is waiting to see me, did you say?’ + +‘I did take that unprofessional liberty, sir. Hearing that I was your +professional adviser, he declined to interpose before my very limited +function was performed. Happily,’ said Mr Rugg, with sarcasm, ‘I did not +so far travel out of the record as to ask the gentleman for his name.’ + +‘I suppose I have no resource but to see him,’ sighed Clennam, wearily. + +‘Then it _is_ your good pleasure, sir?’ retorted Rugg. ‘Am I honoured by +your instructions to mention as much to the gentleman, as I pass out? I +am? Thank you, sir. I take my leave.’ His leave he took accordingly, in +dudgeon. + +The gentleman of military exterior had so imperfectly awakened Clennam’s +curiosity, in the existing state of his mind, that a half-forgetfulness +of such a visitor’s having been referred to, was already creeping over +it as a part of the sombre veil which almost always dimmed it now, when +a heavy footstep on the stairs aroused him. It appeared to ascend them, +not very promptly or spontaneously, yet with a display of stride and +clatter meant to be insulting. As it paused for a moment on the +landing outside his door, he could not recall his association with the +peculiarity of its sound, though he thought he had one. Only a moment +was given him for consideration. His door was immediately swung open +by a thump, and in the doorway stood the missing Blandois, the cause of +many anxieties. + +‘Salve, fellow jail-bird!’ said he. ‘You want me, it seems. Here I am!’ + +Before Arthur could speak to him in his indignant wonder, Cavalletto +followed him into the room. Mr Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of +the two had been there since its present occupant had had possession of +it. Mr Pancks, breathing hard, sidled near the window, put his hat on +the ground, stirred his hair up with both hands, and folded his arms, +like a man who had come to a pause in a hard day’s work. Mr Baptist, +never taking his eyes from his dreaded chum of old, softly sat down on +the floor with his back against the door and one of his ankles in +each hand: resuming the attitude (except that it was now expressive of +unwinking watchfulness) in which he had sat before the same man in the +deeper shade of another prison, one hot morning at Marseilles. + +‘I have it on the witnessing of these two madmen,’ said Monsieur +Blandois, otherwise Lagnier, otherwise Rigaud, ‘that you want me, +brother-bird. Here I am!’ + +Glancing round contemptuously at the bedstead, which was +turned up by day, he leaned his back against it as a resting-place, +without removing his hat from his head, and stood defiantly lounging +with his hands in his pockets. + +‘You villain of ill-omen!’ said Arthur. ‘You have purposely cast a +dreadful suspicion upon my mother’s house. Why have you done it? +What prompted you to the devilish invention?’ + +Monsieur Rigaud, after frowning at him for a moment, laughed. ‘Hear this +noble gentleman! Listen, all the world, to this creature of Virtue! But +take care, take care. It is possible, my friend, that your ardour is a +little compromising. Holy Blue! It is possible.’ + +‘Signore!’ interposed Cavalletto, also addressing Arthur: ‘for to +commence, hear me! I received your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is +it not?’ + +‘It is the truth.’ + +‘I go, consequentementally,’--it would have given Mrs Plornish great +concern if she could have been persuaded that his occasional lengthening +of an adverb in this way, was the chief fault of his English,--‘first +among my countrymen. I ask them what news in Londra, of foreigners +arrived. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They +all tell me. The great part of us know well the other, and they all tell +me. But!--no person can tell me nothing of him, Rigaud. Fifteen times,’ +said Cavalletto, thrice throwing out his left hand with all its fingers +spread, and doing it so rapidly that the sense of sight could hardly +follow the action, ‘I ask of him in every place where go the foreigners; +and fifteen times,’ repeating the same swift performance, ‘they know +nothing. But!--’ + +At this significant Italian rest on the word ‘But,’ his backhanded shake +of his right forefinger came into play; a very little, and very +cautiously. + +‘But!--After a long time when I have not been able to find that he +is here in Londra, some one tells me of a soldier with white +hair--hey?--not hair like this that he carries--white--who lives retired +secrettementally, in a certain place. But!--’ with another rest upon +the word, ‘who sometimes in the after-dinner, walks, and smokes. It is +necessary, as they say in Italy (and as they know, poor people), to +have patience. I have patience. I ask where is this certain place. One. +believes it is here, one believes it is there. Eh well! It is not here, +it is not there. I wait patientissamentally. At last I find it. Then I +watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He is a soldier with grey +hair--But!--’ a very decided rest indeed, and a very vigorous play from +side to side of the back-handed forefinger--‘he is also this man that +you see.’ + +It was noticeable, that, in his old habit of submission to one who had +been at the trouble of asserting superiority over him, he even then +bestowed upon Rigaud a confused bend of his head, after thus pointing +him out. + +‘Eh well, Signore!’ he cried in conclusion, addressing Arthur again. ‘I +waited for a good opportunity. I writed some words to Signor Panco,’ an +air of novelty came over Mr Pancks with this designation, ‘to come and +help. I showed him, Rigaud, at his window, to Signor Panco, who was +often the spy in the day. I slept at night near the door of the house. +At last we entered, only this to-day, and now you see him! As he would +not come up in presence of the illustrious Advocate,’ such was Mr +Baptist’s honourable mention of Mr Rugg, ‘we waited down below there, +together, and Signor Panco guarded the street.’ + +At the close of this recital, Arthur turned his eyes upon the impudent +and wicked face. As it met his, the nose came down over the moustache +and the moustache went up under the nose. When nose and moustache had +settled into their places again, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his +fingers half-a-dozen times; bending forward to jerk the snaps at Arthur, +as if they were palpable missiles which he jerked into his face. + +‘Now, Philosopher!’ said Rigaud. ‘What do you want with me?’ + +‘I want to know,’ returned Arthur, without disguising his abhorrence, +‘how you dare direct a suspicion of murder against my mother’s house?’ + +‘Dare!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Ho, ho! Hear him! Dare? Is it dare? By Heaven, my +small boy, but you are a little imprudent!’ + +‘I want that suspicion to be cleared away,’ said Arthur. ‘You shall +be taken there, and be publicly seen. I want to know, moreover, +what business you had there when I had a burning desire to fling you +down-stairs. Don’t frown at me, man! I have seen enough of you to know +that you are a bully and coward. I need no revival of my spirits from +the effects of this wretched place to tell you so plain a fact, and one +that you know so well.’ + +White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his moustache, muttering, ‘By Heaven, +my small boy, but you are a little compromising of my lady, your +respectable mother’--and seemed for a minute undecided how to act. +His indecision was soon gone. He sat himself down with a threatening +swagger, and said: + +‘Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your +madmen to get me a bottle of wine. I won’t talk to you without wine. +Come! Yes or no?’ + +‘Fetch him what he wants, Cavalletto,’ said Arthur, scornfully, +producing the money. + +‘Contraband beast,’ added Rigaud, ‘bring Port wine! I’ll drink nothing +but Porto-Porto.’ + +The contraband beast, however, assuring all present, with his +significant finger, that he peremptorily declined to leave his post at +the door, Signor Panco offered his services. He soon returned with the +bottle of wine: which, according to the custom of the place, originating +in a scarcity of corkscrews among the Collegians (in common with a +scarcity of much else), was already opened for use. + +‘Madman! A large glass,’ said Rigaud. + +Signor Panco put a tumbler before him; not without a visible conflict of +feeling on the question of throwing it at his head. + +‘Haha!’ boasted Rigaud. ‘Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman. +A gentleman from the beginning, and a gentleman to the end. What +the Devil! A gentleman must be waited on, I hope? It’s a part of my +character to be waited on!’ + +He half filled the tumbler as he said it, and drank off the contents +when he had done saying it. + +‘Hah!’ smacking his lips. ‘Not a very old prisoner _that_! I judge by +your looks, brave sir, that imprisonment will subdue your blood much +sooner than it softens this hot wine. You are mellowing--losing body +and colour already. I salute you!’ + +He tossed off another half glass: holding it up both before and +afterwards, so as to display his small, white hand. + +‘To business,’ he then continued. ‘To conversation. You have shown +yourself more free of speech than body, sir.’ + +‘I have used the freedom of telling you what you know yourself to be. +You know yourself, as we all know you, to be far worse than that.’ + +‘Add, always a gentleman, and it’s no matter. Except in that regard, we +are all alike. For example: you couldn’t for your life be a gentleman; +I couldn’t for my life be otherwise. How great the difference! Let us go +on. Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course +of the dice. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words are +without power over it.’ + +Now that he was confronted with Cavalletto, and knew that his story was +known--whatever thin disguise he had worn, he dropped; and faced it out, +with a bare face, as the infamous wretch he was. + +‘No, my son,’ he resumed, with a snap of his fingers. ‘I play my game +to the end in spite of words; and Death of my Body and Death of my Soul! +I’ll win it. You want to know why I played this little trick that +you have interrupted? Know then that I had, and that I have--do you +understand me? have--a commodity to sell to my lady your respectable +mother. I described my precious commodity, and fixed my price. Touching +the bargain, your admirable mother was a little too calm, too stolid, +too immovable and statue-like. In fine, your admirable mother vexed me. +To make variety in my position, and to amuse myself--what! a gentleman +must be amused at somebody’s expense!--I conceived the happy idea of +disappearing. An idea, see you, that your characteristic mother and my +Flintwinch would have been well enough pleased to execute. Ah! Bah, +bah, bah, don’t look as from high to low at me! I repeat it. Well enough +pleased, excessively enchanted, and with all their hearts ravished. How +strongly will you have it?’ + +He threw out the lees of his glass on the ground, so that they nearly +spattered Cavalletto. This seemed to draw his attention to him anew. He +set down his glass and said: + +‘I’ll not fill it. What! I am born to be served. Come then, you +Cavalletto, and fill!’ + +The little man looked at Clennam, whose eyes were occupied with Rigaud, +and, seeing no prohibition, got up from the ground, and poured out +from the bottle into the glass. The blending, as he did so, of his old +submission with a sense of something humorous; the striving of that +with a certain smouldering ferocity, which might have flashed fire in +an instant (as the born gentleman seemed to think, for he had a wary +eye upon him); and the easy yielding of all to a good-natured, careless, +predominant propensity to sit down on the ground again: formed a very +remarkable combination of character. + +‘This happy idea, brave sir,’ Rigaud resumed after drinking, ‘was a +happy idea for several reasons. It amused me, it worried your dear +mama and my Flintwinch, it caused you agonies (my terms for a lesson +in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the amiable +persons interested that your entirely devoted is a man to fear. By +Heaven, he is a man to fear! Beyond this; it might have restored her wit +to my lady your mother--might, under the pressing little suspicion your +wisdom has recognised, have persuaded her at last to announce, covertly, +in the journals, that the difficulties of a certain contract would be +removed by the appearance of a certain important party to it. Perhaps +yes, perhaps no. But that, you have interrupted. Now, what is it you +say? What is it you want?’ + +Never had Clennam felt more acutely that he was a prisoner in bonds, +than when he saw this man before him, and could not accompany him to his +mother’s house. All the undiscernible difficulties and dangers he had +ever feared were closing in, when he could not stir hand or foot. + +‘Perhaps, my friend, philosopher, man of virtue, Imbecile, what you +will; perhaps,’ said Rigaud, pausing in his drink to look out of his +glass with his horrible smile, ‘you would have done better to leave me +alone?’ + +‘No! At least,’ said Clennam, ‘you are known to be alive and unharmed. +At least you cannot escape from these two witnesses; and they can +produce you before any public authorities, or before hundreds of +people!’ + +‘But will not produce me before one,’ said Rigaud, snapping his +fingers again with an air of triumphant menace. ‘To the Devil with your +witnesses! To the Devil with your produced! To the Devil with yourself! +What! Do I know what I know, for that? Have I my commodity on sale, for +that? Bah, poor debtor! You have interrupted my little project. Let it +pass. How then? What remains? To you, nothing; to me, all. Produce +_me_! Is that what you want? I will produce myself, only too quickly. +Contrabandist! Give me pen, ink, and paper.’ + +Cavalletto got up again as before, and laid them before him in his +former manner. Rigaud, after some villainous thinking and smiling, +wrote, and read aloud, as follows: + + +‘To MRS CLENNAM. + +‘Wait answer. + +‘Prison of the Marshalsea. +‘At the apartment of your son. + +‘Dear Madam, + +‘I am in despair to be informed to-day by our prisoner here +(who has had the goodness to employ spies to seek me, living for politic +reasons in retirement), that you have had fears for my safety. + +‘Reassure yourself, dear madam. I am well, I am strong and constant. + +‘With the greatest impatience I should fly to your house, but that I +foresee it to be possible, under the circumstances, that you will not +yet have quite definitively arranged the little proposition I have had +the honour to submit to you. I name one week from this day, for a last +final visit on my part; when you will unconditionally accept it or +reject it, with its train of consequences. + +‘I suppress my ardour to embrace you and achieve this interesting +business, in order that you may have leisure to adjust its details to +our perfect mutual satisfaction. + +‘In the meanwhile, it is not too much to propose (our prisoner having +deranged my housekeeping), that my expenses of lodging and nourishment +at an hotel shall be paid by you. + +‘Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished +consideration, + + ‘RIGAUD BLANDOIS. + +‘A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch. + +‘I kiss the hands of Madame F.’ + + +When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with +a flourish at Clennam’s feet. ‘Hola you! Apropos of producing, let +somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.’ + +‘Cavalletto,’ said Arthur. ‘Will you take this fellow’s letter?’ + +But, Cavalletto’s significant finger again expressing that his post was +at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much +trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up +by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,--Signor Panco +once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered +the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself +out, and immediately shut it on him. + +‘Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my +superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,’ said Rigaud, +‘and I follow the letter and cancel my week’s grace. _You_ wanted me? You +have got me! How do you like me?’ + +‘You know,’ returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness, +‘that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.’ + +‘To the Devil with you and your prison,’ retorted Rigaud, leisurely, +as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making +cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present +use; ‘I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.’ + +Again Cavalletto got up, and gave him what he wanted. There had been +something dreadful in the noiseless skill of his cold, white hands, with +the fingers lithely twisting about and twining one over another like +serpents. Clennam could not prevent himself from shuddering inwardly, as +if he had been looking on at a nest of those creatures. + +‘Hola, Pig!’ cried Rigaud, with a noisy stimulating cry, as if +Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. ‘What! The infernal old jail +was a respectable one to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones +of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Bah! A hospital for +imbeciles!’ + +He smoked his cigarette out, with his ugly smile so fixed upon his face +that he looked as though he were smoking with his drooping beak of a +nose, rather than with his mouth; like a fancy in a weird picture. When +he had lighted a second cigarette at the still burning end of the first, +he said to Clennam: + +‘One must pass the time in the madman’s absence. One must talk. One +can’t drink strong wine all day long, or I would have another bottle. +She’s handsome, sir. Though not exactly to my taste, still, by +the Thunder and the Lightning! handsome. I felicitate you on your +admiration.’ + +‘I neither know nor ask,’ said Clennam, ‘of whom you speak.’ + +‘Della bella Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the fair +Gowan.’ + +‘Of whose husband you were the--follower, I think?’ + +‘Sir? Follower? You are insolent. The friend.’ + +‘Do you sell all your friends?’ + +Rigaud took his cigarette from his mouth, and eyed him with a momentary +revelation of surprise. But he put it between his lips again, as he +answered with coolness: + +‘I sell anything that commands a price. How do your lawyers live, your +politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange? How do you live? +How do you come here? Have you sold no friend? Lady of mine! I rather +think, yes!’ + +Clennam turned away from him towards the window, and sat looking out at +the wall. + +‘Effectively, sir,’ said Rigaud, ‘Society sells itself and sells me: and +I sell Society. I perceive you have acquaintance with another lady. Also +handsome. A strong spirit. Let us see. How do they call her? Wade.’ + +He received no answer, but could easily discern that he had hit the +mark. + +‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘that handsome lady and strong spirit addresses me in +the street, and I am not insensible. I respond. That handsome lady and +strong spirit does me the favour to remark, in full confidence, “I have +my curiosity, and I have my chagrins. You are not more than ordinarily +honourable, perhaps?” I announce myself, “Madame, a gentleman from +the birth, and a gentleman to the death; but _not_ more than ordinarily +honourable. I despise such a weak fantasy.” Thereupon she is pleased to +compliment. “The difference between you and the rest is,” she answers, +“that you say so.” For she knows Society. I accept her congratulations +with gallantry and politeness. Politeness and little gallantries are +inseparable from my character. She then makes a proposition, which is, +in effect, that she has seen us much together; that it appears to her +that I am for the passing time the cat of the house, the friend of +the family; that her curiosity and her chagrins awaken the fancy to be +acquainted with their movements, to know the manner of their life, how +the fair Gowana is beloved, how the fair Gowana is cherished, and so +on. She is not rich, but offers such and such little recompenses for the +little cares and derangements of such services; and I graciously--to do +everything graciously is a part of my character--consent to accept them. +O yes! So goes the world. It is the mode.’ + +Though Clennam’s back was turned while he spoke, and thenceforth to the +end of the interview, he kept those glittering eyes of his that were too +near together, upon him, and evidently saw in the very carriage of the +head, as he passed with his braggart recklessness from clause to clause +of what he said, that he was saying nothing which Clennam did not +already know. + +‘Whoof! The fair Gowana!’ he said, lighting a third cigarette with a +sound as if his lightest breath could blow her away. ‘Charming, but +imprudent! For it was not well of the fair Gowana to make mysteries of +letters from old lovers, in her bedchamber on the mountain, that her +husband might not see them. No, no. That was not well. Whoof! The Gowana +was mistaken there.’ + +‘I earnestly hope,’ cried Arthur aloud, ‘that Pancks may not be long +gone, for this man’s presence pollutes the room.’ + +‘Ah! But he’ll flourish here, and everywhere,’ said Rigaud, with an +exulting look and snap of his fingers. ‘He always has; he always will!’ +Stretching his body out on the only three chairs in the room besides +that on which Clennam sat, he sang, smiting himself on the breast as the +gallant personage of the song. + + + ‘Who passes by this road so late? + Compagnon de la Majolaine! + Who passes by this road so late? + Always gay! + + +‘Sing the Refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing +it! Or, by every Saint who was stoned to death, I’ll be affronted and +compromising; and then some people who are not dead yet, had better have +been stoned along with them!’ + + + ‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, + Compagnon de la Majolaine! + Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, + Always gay!’ + + +Partly in his old habit of submission, partly because his not doing it +might injure his benefactor, and partly because he would as soon do +it as anything else, Cavalletto took up the Refrain this time. Rigaud +laughed, and fell to smoking with his eyes shut. + +Possibly another quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr Pancks’s step was +heard upon the stairs, but the interval seemed to Clennam insupportably +long. His step was attended by another step; and when Cavalletto opened +the door, he admitted Mr Pancks and Mr Flintwinch. The latter was no +sooner visible, than Rigaud rushed at him and embraced him boisterously. + +‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could +disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony. +‘Thank you, no; I don’t want any more.’ This was in reference to another +menace of attention from his recovered friend. ‘Well, Arthur. You +remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It’s +come true, you see.’ + +He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head +in a moralising way as he looked round the room. + +‘And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Hah! +you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.’ + +If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch, +with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried: + +‘To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the +Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.’ + +‘If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,’ returned Mr +Flintwinch, ‘I’ll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for +him.’ + +He did so. It was in his mother’s maimed writing, on a slip of paper, +and contained only these words: + + +‘I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented +without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and +representative. Your affectionate M. C.’ + + +Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud +in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with +his feet upon the seat. + +‘Now, Beau Flintwinch,’ he said, when he had closely watched the note to +its destruction, ‘the answer to my letter?’ + +‘Mrs Clennam did not write, Mr Blandois, her hands being cramped, +and she thinking it as well to send it verbally by me.’ Mr Flintwinch +screwed this out of himself, unwillingly and rustily. ‘She sends +her compliments, and says she doesn’t on the whole wish to term +you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But without prejudicing the +appointment that stands for this day week.’ + +Monsieur Rigaud, after indulging in a fit of laughter, descended from +his throne, saying, ‘Good! I go to seek an hotel!’ But, there his eyes +encountered Cavalletto, who was still at his post. + +‘Come, Pig,’ he added, ‘I have had you for a follower against my will; +now, I’ll have you against yours. I tell you, my little reptiles, I +am born to be served. I demand the service of this contrabandist as my +domestic until this day week.’ + +In answer to Cavalletto’s look of inquiry, Clennam made him a sign +to go; but he added aloud, ‘unless you are afraid of him.’ Cavalletto +replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.’No, master, I am not +afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once +my comrade.’ Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted +his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking. + +‘Afraid of him,’ he said then, looking round upon them all. ‘Whoof! My +children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You +give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging +there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his +character to triumph! Whoof! + + + ‘Of all the king’s knights he’s the flower, + And he’s always gay!’ + + +With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the +room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into +his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get +rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about +with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and +followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after +receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from +Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand +by it to the end. The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more +despised, more scorned and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more +miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again. + + + + +CHAPTER 29. A Plea in the Marshalsea + + +Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad companions to be barred up with. +Brooding all day, and resting very little indeed at night, will not +arm a man against misery. Next morning, Clennam felt that his health was +sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which +he bent was bearing him down. + +Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or +one o’clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the +yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it +was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came, +he could not even persuade himself to undress. + +For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison, +and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there, +which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the +place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in +it. The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him, that +he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping. At the +same time a longing for other air, and a yearning to be beyond the blind +blank wall, made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the +desire. + +Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him, +and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases, +as they did in his. Two nights and a day exhausted it. It came back by +fits, but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals. A +desolate calm succeeded; and the middle of the week found him settled +down in the despondency of low, slow fever. + +With Cavalletto and Pancks away, he had no visitors to fear but Mr and +Mrs Plornish. His anxiety, in reference to that worthy pair, was that +they should not come near him; for, in the morbid state of his nerves, +he sought to be left alone, and spared the being seen so subdued and +weak. He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied +with his affairs, and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to +them, to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of +a sight of her kind face. As to Young John, who looked in daily at a +certain hour, when the turnkeys were relieved, to ask if he could do +anything for him; he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing, +and to answer cheerfully in the negative. The subject of their only +long conversation had never been revived between them. Through all these +changes of unhappiness, however, it had never lost its hold on Clennam’s +mind. + +The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist, hot, misty day. It +seemed as though the prison’s poverty, and shabbiness, and dirt, were +growing in the sultry atmosphere. With an aching head and a weary heart, +Clennam had watched the miserable night out, listening to the fall of +rain on the yard pavement, thinking of its softer fall upon the country +earth. A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu +of sun, and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall, like a bit of +the prison’s raggedness. He had heard the gates open; and the badly shod +feet that waited outside shuffle in; and the sweeping, and pumping, +and moving about, begin, which commenced the prison morning. So ill and +faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting +himself washed, he had at length crept to his chair by the open window. +In it he sat dozing, while the old woman who arranged his room went +through her morning’s work. + +Light of head with want of sleep and want of food (his appetite, and +even his sense of taste, having forsaken him), he had been two or three +times conscious, in the night, of going astray. He had heard fragments +of tunes and songs in the warm wind, which he knew had no existence. +Now that he began to doze in exhaustion, he heard them again; and voices +seemed to address him, and he answered, and started. + +Dozing and dreaming, without the power of reckoning time, so that +a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute, some abiding +impression of a garden stole over him--a garden of flowers, with a +damp warm wind gently stirring their scents. It required such a painful +effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this, or +inquiring into anything, that the impression appeared to have become +quite an old and importunate one when he looked round. Beside the +tea-cup on his table he saw, then, a blooming nosegay: a wonderful +handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers. + +Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight. He took them up and +inhaled their fragrance, and he lifted them to his hot head, and he put +them down and opened his parched hands to them, as cold hands are opened +to receive the cheering of a fire. It was not until he had delighted in +them for some time, that he wondered who had sent them; and opened his +door to ask the woman who must have put them there, how they had come +into her hands. But she was gone, and seemed to have been long gone; for +the tea she had left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink +some, but could not bear the odour of it: so he crept back to his chair +by the open window, and put the flowers on the little round table of +old. + +When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him, +he subsided into his former state. One of the night-tunes was playing +in the wind, when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch, +and, after a moment’s pause, a quiet figure seemed to stand there, with +a black mantle on it. It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on +the ground, and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old, worn +dress. It seemed to tremble, and to clasp its hands, and to smile, and +to burst into tears. + +He roused himself, and cried out. And then he saw, in the loving, +pitying, sorrowing, dear face, as in a mirror, how changed he was; and +she came towards him; and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him +in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with +her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as +the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a +living presence, called him by his name. + +‘O, my best friend! Dear Mr Clennam, don’t let me see you weep! Unless +you weep with pleasure to see me. I hope you do. Your own poor child +come back!’ + +So faithful, tender, and unspoiled by Fortune. In the sound of her +voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so +Angelically comforting and true! + +As he embraced her, she said to him, ‘They never told me you were ill,’ +and drawing an arm softly round his neck, laid his head upon her bosom, +put a hand upon his head, and resting her cheek upon that hand, nursed +him as lovingly, and GOD knows as innocently, as she had nursed her +father in that room when she had been but a baby, needing all the care +from others that she took of them. + +When he could speak, he said, ‘Is it possible that you have come to me? +And in this dress?’ + +‘I hoped you would like me better in this dress than any other. I have +always kept it by me, to remind me: though I wanted no reminding. I am +not alone, you see. I have brought an old friend with me.’ + +Looking round, he saw Maggy in her big cap which had been long +abandoned, with a basket on her arm as in the bygone days, chuckling +rapturously. + +‘It was only yesterday evening that I came to London with my brother. +I sent round to Mrs Plornish almost as soon as we arrived, that I might +hear of you and let you know I had come. Then I heard that you were +here. Did you happen to think of me in the night? I almost believe you +must have thought of me a little. I thought of you so anxiously, and it +appeared so long to morning.’ + +‘I have thought of you--’ he hesitated what to call her. She perceived +it in an instant. + +‘You have not spoken to me by my right name yet. You know what my right +name always is with you.’ + +‘I have thought of you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every +minute, since I have been here.’ + +‘Have you? Have you?’ + +He saw the bright delight of her face, and the flush that kindled in +it, with a feeling of shame. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonoured +prisoner. + +‘I was here before the gates were opened, but I was afraid to come +straight to you. I should have done you more harm than good, at first; +for the prison was so familiar and yet so strange, and it brought back +so many remembrances of my poor father, and of you too, that at first +it overpowered me. But we went to Mr Chivery before we came to the gate, +and he brought us in, and got John’s room for us--my poor old room, you +know--and we waited there a little. I brought the flowers to the door, +but you didn’t hear me.’ + +She looked something more womanly than when she had gone away, and the +ripening touch of the Italian sun was visible upon her face. But, +otherwise, she was quite unchanged. The same deep, timid earnestness +that he had always seen in her, and never without emotion, he saw still. +If it had a new meaning that smote him to the heart, the change was in +his perception, not in her. + +She took off her old bonnet, hung it in the old place, and noiselessly +began, with Maggy’s help, to make his room as fresh and neat as it could +be made, and to sprinkle it with a pleasant-smelling water. When that +was done, the basket, which was filled with grapes and other fruit, +was unpacked, and all its contents were quietly put away. When that was +done, a moment’s whisper despatched Maggy to despatch somebody else to +fill the basket again; which soon came back replenished with new +stores, from which a present provision of cooling drink and jelly, and +a prospective supply of roast chicken and wine and water, were the first +extracts. These various arrangements completed, she took out her old +needle-case to make him a curtain for his window; and thus, with a quiet +reigning in the room, that seemed to diffuse itself through the else +noisy prison, he found himself composed in his chair, with Little Dorrit +working at his side. + +To see the modest head again bent down over its task, and the nimble +fingers busy at their old work--though she was not so absorbed in it, +but that her compassionate eyes were often raised to his face, and, when +they drooped again had tears in them--to be so consoled and comforted, +and to believe that all the devotion of this great nature was turned to +him in his adversity to pour out its inexhaustible wealth of goodness +upon him, did not steady Clennam’s trembling voice or hand, or +strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it inspired him with an inward +fortitude, that rose with his love. And how dearly he loved her now, +what words can tell! + +As they sat side by side in the shadow of the wall, the shadow fell like +light upon him. She would not let him speak much, and he lay back in +his chair, looking at her. Now and again she would rise and give him +the glass that he might drink, or would smooth the resting-place of his +head; then she would gently resume her seat by him, and bend over her +work again. + +The shadow moved with the sun, but she never moved from his side, except +to wait upon him. The sun went down and she was still there. She had +done her work now, and her hand, faltering on the arm of his chair since +its last tending of him, was hesitating there yet. He laid his hand upon +it, and it clasped him with a trembling supplication. + +‘Dear Mr Clennam, I must say something to you before I go. I have put it +off from hour to hour, but I must say it.’ + +‘I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have put off what I must say.’ + +She nervously moved her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it +dropped, trembling, into its former place. + +‘I am not going abroad again. My brother is, but I am not. He was always +attached to me, and he is so grateful to me now--so much too grateful, +for it is only because I happened to be with him in his illness--that +he says I shall be free to stay where I like best, and to do what I like +best. He only wishes me to be happy, he says.’ + +There was one bright star shining in the sky. She looked up at it while +she spoke, as if it were the fervent purpose of her own heart shining +above her. + +‘You will understand, I dare say, without my telling you, that my +brother has come home to find my dear father’s will, and to take +possession of his property. He says, if there is a will, he is sure I +shall be left rich; and if there is none, that he will make me so.’ + +He would have spoken; but she put up her trembling hand again, and he +stopped. + +‘I have no use for money, I have no wish for it. It would be of no value +at all to me but for your sake. I could not be rich, and you here. I +must always be much worse than poor, with you distressed. Will you let +me lend you all I have? Will you let me give it you? Will you let me +show you that I have never forgotten, that I never can forget, your +protection of me when this was my home? Dear Mr Clennam, make me of all +the world the happiest, by saying Yes? Make me as happy as I can be in +leaving you here, by saying nothing to-night, and letting me go +away with the hope that you will think of it kindly; and that for my +sake--not for yours, for mine, for nobody’s but mine!--you will give me +the greatest joy I can experience on earth, the joy of knowing that I +have been serviceable to you, and that I have paid some little of the +great debt of my affection and gratitude. I can’t say what I wish to +say. I can’t visit you here where I have lived so long, I can’t think of +you here where I have seen so much, and be as calm and comforting as I +ought. My tears will make their way. I cannot keep them back. But +pray, pray, pray, do not turn from your Little Dorrit, now, in your +affliction! Pray, pray, pray, I beg you and implore you with all my +grieving heart, my friend--my dear!--take all I have, and make it a +Blessing to me!’ + +The star had shone on her face until now, when her face sank upon his +hand and her own. + +It had grown darker when he raised her in his encircling arm, and softly +answered her. + +‘No, darling Little Dorrit. No, my child. I must not hear of such a +sacrifice. Liberty and hope would be so dear, bought at such a price, +that I could never support their weight, never bear the reproach of +possessing them. But with what ardent thankfulness and love I say this, +I may call Heaven to witness!’ + +‘And yet you will not let me be faithful to you in your affliction?’ + +‘Say, dearest Little Dorrit, and yet I will try to be faithful to you. +If, in the bygone days when this was your home and when this was your +dress, I had understood myself (I speak only of myself) better, and +had read the secrets of my own breast more distinctly; if, through my +reserve and self-mistrust, I had discerned a light that I see brightly +now when it has passed far away, and my weak footsteps can never +overtake it; if I had then known, and told you that I loved and honoured +you, not as the poor child I used to call you, but as a woman whose +true hand would raise me high above myself and make me a far happier and +better man; if I had so used the opportunity there is no recalling--as +I wish I had, O I wish I had!--and if something had kept us apart then, +when I was moderately thriving, and when you were poor; I might have met +your noble offer of your fortune, dearest girl, with other words than +these, and still have blushed to touch it. But, as it is, I must never +touch it, never!’ + +She besought him, more pathetically and earnestly, with her little +supplicatory hand, than she could have done in any words. + +‘I am disgraced enough, my Little Dorrit. I must not descend so low as +that, and carry you--so dear, so generous, so good--down with me. GOD +bless you, GOD reward you! It is past.’ + +He took her in his arms, as if she had been his daughter. + +‘Always so much older, so much rougher, and so much less worthy, even +what I was must be dismissed by both of us, and you must see me only as +I am. I put this parting kiss upon your cheek, my child--who might have +been more near to me, who never could have been more dear--a ruined man +far removed from you, for ever separated from you, whose course is +run while yours is but beginning. I have not the courage to ask to be +forgotten by you in my humiliation; but I ask to be remembered only as I +am.’ + +The bell began to ring, warning visitors to depart. He took her mantle +from the wall, and tenderly wrapped it round her. + +‘One other word, my Little Dorrit. A hard one to me, but it is a +necessary one. The time when you and this prison had anything in common +has long gone by. Do you understand?’ + +‘O! you will never say to me,’ she cried, weeping bitterly, and holding +up her clasped hands in entreaty, ‘that I am not to come back any more! +You will surely not desert me so!’ + +‘I would say it, if I could; but I have not the courage quite to shut +out this dear face, and abandon all hope of its return. But do not come +soon, do not come often! This is now a tainted place, and I well know +the taint of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better +scenes. You are not to look back here, my Little Dorrit; you are to look +away to very different and much happier paths. Again, GOD bless you in +them! GOD reward you!’ + +Maggy, who had fallen into very low spirits, here cried, ‘Oh get him +into a hospital; do get him into a hospital, Mother! He’ll never look +like hisself again, if he an’t got into a hospital. And then the little +woman as was always a spinning at her wheel, she can go to the cupboard +with the Princess, and say, what do you keep the Chicking there for? and +then they can take it out and give it to him, and then all be happy!’ + +The interruption was seasonable, for the bell had nearly rung itself +out. Again tenderly wrapping her mantle about her, and taking her on his +arm (though, but for her visit, he was almost too weak to walk), Arthur +led Little Dorrit down-stairs. She was the last visitor to pass out at +the Lodge, and the gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her. + +With the funeral clang that it sounded into Arthur’s heart, his sense of +weakness returned. It was a toilsome journey up-stairs to his room, and +he re-entered its dark solitary precincts in unutterable misery. + +When it was almost midnight, and the prison had long been quiet, a +cautious creak came up the stairs, and a cautious tap of a key was given +at his door. It was Young John. He glided in, in his stockings, and held +the door closed, while he spoke in a whisper. + +‘It’s against all rules, but I don’t mind. I was determined to come +through, and come to you.’ + +‘What is the matter?’ + +‘Nothing’s the matter, sir. I was waiting in the court-yard for Miss +Dorrit when she came out. I thought you’d like some one to see that she +was safe.’ + +‘Thank you, thank you! You took her home, John?’ + +‘I saw her to her hotel. The same that Mr Dorrit was at. Miss Dorrit +walked all the way, and talked to me so kind, it quite knocked me over. +Why do you think she walked instead of riding?’ + +‘I don’t know, John.’ + +‘To talk about you. She said to me, “John, you was always honourable, +and if you’ll promise me that you will take care of him, and never let +him want for help and comfort when I am not there, my mind will be at +rest so far.” I promised her. And I’ll stand by you,’ said John Chivery, +‘for ever!’ + +Clennam, much affected, stretched out his hand to this honest spirit. + +‘Before I take it,’ said John, looking at it, without coming from the +door, ‘guess what message Miss Dorrit gave me.’ + +Clennam shook his head. + +‘“Tell him,”’ repeated John, in a distinct, though quavering voice, +‘“that his Little Dorrit sent him her undying love.” Now it’s delivered. +Have I been honourable, sir?’ + +‘Very, very!’ + +‘Will you tell Miss Dorrit I’ve been honourable, sir?’ + +‘I will indeed.’ + +‘There’s my hand, sir,’ said John, ‘and I’ll stand by you forever!’ + +After a hearty squeeze, he disappeared with the same cautious creak upon +the stair, crept shoeless over the pavement of the yard, and, locking +the gates behind him, passed out into the front where he had left his +shoes. If the same way had been paved with burning ploughshares, it is +not at all improbable that John would have traversed it with the same +devotion, for the same purpose. + + + + +CHAPTER 30. Closing in + + +The last day of the appointed week touched the bars of the Marshalsea +gate. Black, all night, since the gate had clashed upon Little Dorrit, +its iron stripes were turned by the early-glowing sun into stripes of +gold. Far aslant across the city, over its jumbled roofs, and through +the open tracery of its church towers, struck the long bright rays, bars +of the prison of this lower world. + +Throughout the day the old house within the gateway remained untroubled +by any visitors. But, when the sun was low, three men turned in at the +gateway and made for the dilapidated house. + +Rigaud was the first, and walked by himself smoking. Mr Baptist was +the second, and jogged close after him, looking at no other object. +Mr Pancks was the third, and carried his hat under his arm for the +liberation of his restive hair; the weather being extremely hot. They +all came together at the door-steps. + +‘You pair of madmen!’ said Rigaud, facing about. ‘Don’t go yet!’ + +‘We don’t mean to,’ said Mr Pancks. + +Giving him a dark glance in acknowledgment of his answer, Rigaud knocked +loudly. He had charged himself with drink, for the playing out of his +game, and was impatient to begin. He had hardly finished one long +resounding knock, when he turned to the knocker again and began another. +That was not yet finished when Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and +they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud, thrusting Mr Flintwinch +aside, proceeded straight up-stairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr +Flintwinch followed them, and they all came trooping into Mrs Clennam’s +quiet room. It was in its usual state; except that one of the windows +was wide open, and Affery sat on its old-fashioned window-seat, mending +a stocking. The usual articles were on the little table; the usual +deadened fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual pall upon it; and +the mistress of all sat on her black bier-like sofa, propped up by her +black angular bolster that was like the headsman’s block. + +Yet there was a nameless air of preparation in the room, as if it were +strung up for an occasion. From what the room derived it--every one of +its small variety of objects being in the fixed spot it had occupied +for years--no one could have said without looking attentively at its +mistress, and that, too, with a previous knowledge of her face. Although +her unchanging black dress was in every plait precisely as of old, and +her unchanging attitude was rigidly preserved, a very slight additional +setting of her features and contraction of her gloomy forehead was so +powerfully marked, that it marked everything about her. + +‘Who are these?’ she said, wonderingly, as the two attendants entered. +‘What do these people want here?’ + +‘Who are these, dear madame, is it?’ returned Rigaud. ‘Faith, they are +friends of your son the prisoner. And what do they want here, is it? +Death, madame, I don’t know. You will do well to ask them.’ + +‘You know you told us at the door, not to go yet,’ said Pancks. + +‘And you know you told me at the door, you didn’t mean to go,’ retorted +Rigaud. ‘In a word, madame, permit me to present two spies of the +prisoner’s--madmen, but spies. If you wish them to remain here during +our little conversation, say the word. It is nothing to me.’ + +‘Why should I wish them to remain here?’ said Mrs Clennam. ‘What have I +to do with them?’ + +‘Then, dearest madame,’ said Rigaud, throwing himself into an arm-chair +so heavily that the old room trembled, ‘you will do well to dismiss +them. It is your affair. They are not my spies, not my rascals.’ + +‘Hark! You Pancks,’ said Mrs Clennam, bending her brows upon him +angrily, ‘you Casby’s clerk! Attend to your employer’s business and your +own. Go. And take that other man with you.’ + +‘Thank you, ma’am,’ returned Mr Pancks, ‘I am glad to say I see no +objection to our both retiring. We have done all we undertook to do for +Mr Clennam. His constant anxiety has been (and it grew worse upon him +when he became a prisoner), that this agreeable gentleman should be +brought back here to the place from which he slipped away. Here he +is--brought back. And I will say,’ added Mr Pancks, ‘to his ill-looking +face, that in my opinion the world would be no worse for his slipping +out of it altogether.’ + +‘Your opinion is not asked,’ answered Mrs Clennam. ‘Go.’ + +‘I am sorry not to leave you in better company, ma’am,’ said Pancks; +‘and sorry, too, that Mr Clennam can’t be present. It’s my fault, that +is.’ + +‘You mean his own,’ she returned. + +‘No, I mean mine, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘for it was my misfortune to lead +him into a ruinous investment.’ (Mr Pancks still clung to that word, +and never said speculation.) ‘Though I can prove by figures,’ added Mr +Pancks, with an anxious countenance, ‘that it ought to have been a good +investment. I have gone over it since it failed, every day of my life, +and it comes out--regarded as a question of figures--triumphant. The +present is not a time or place,’ Mr Pancks pursued, with a longing +glance into his hat, where he kept his calculations, ‘for entering upon +the figures; but the figures are not to be disputed. Mr Clennam ought to +have been at this moment in his carriage and pair, and I ought to have +been worth from three to five thousand pound.’ + +Mr Pancks put his hair erect with a general aspect of confidence that +could hardly have been surpassed, if he had had the amount in his +pocket. These incontrovertible figures had been the occupation of every +moment of his leisure since he had lost his money, and were destined to +afford him consolation to the end of his days. + +‘However,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘enough of that. Altro, old boy, you have +seen the figures, and you know how they come out.’ Mr Baptist, who had +not the slightest arithmetical power of compensating himself in this +way, nodded, with a fine display of bright teeth. + +At whom Mr Flintwinch had been looking, and to whom he then said: + +‘Oh! it’s you, is it? I thought I remembered your face, but I wasn’t +certain till I saw your teeth. Ah! yes, to be sure. It was this +officious refugee,’ said Jeremiah to Mrs Clennam, ‘who came knocking +at the door on the night when Arthur and Chatterbox were here, and who +asked me a whole Catechism of questions about Mr Blandois.’ + +‘It is true,’ Mr Baptist cheerfully admitted. ‘And behold him, padrone! +I have found him consequentementally.’ + +‘I shouldn’t have objected,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘to your having +broken your neck consequentementally.’ + +‘And now,’ said Mr Pancks, whose eye had often stealthily wandered to +the window-seat and the stocking that was being mended there, ‘I’ve +only one other word to say before I go. If Mr Clennam was here--but +unfortunately, though he has so far got the better of this fine +gentleman as to return him to this place against his will, he is ill +and in prison--ill and in prison, poor fellow--if he was here,’ said Mr +Pancks, taking one step aside towards the window-seat, and laying +his right hand upon the stocking; ‘he would say, “Affery, tell your +dreams!”’ + +Mr Pancks held up his right forefinger between his nose and the stocking +with a ghostly air of warning, turned, steamed out and towed Mr Baptist +after him. The house-door was heard to close upon them, their steps +were heard passing over the dull pavement of the echoing court-yard, and +still nobody had added a word. Mrs Clennam and Jeremiah had exchanged a +look; and had then looked, and looked still, at Affery, who sat mending +the stocking with great assiduity. + +‘Come!’ said Mr Flintwinch at length, screwing himself a curve or two in +the direction of the window-seat, and rubbing the palms of his hands on +his coat-tail as if he were preparing them to do something: ‘Whatever +has to be said among us had better be begun to be said without more loss +of time.--So, Affery, my woman, take yourself away!’ + +In a moment Affery had thrown the stocking down, started up, caught +hold of the windowsill with her right hand, lodged herself upon the +window-seat with her right knee, and was flourishing her left hand, +beating expected assailants off. + +‘No, I won’t, Jeremiah--no, I won’t--no, I won’t! I won’t go! I’ll stay +here. I’ll hear all I don’t know, and say all I know. I will, at last, +if I die for it. I will, I will, I will, I will!’ + +Mr Flintwinch, stiffening with indignation and amazement, moistened the +fingers of one hand at his lips, softly described a circle with them in +the palm of the other hand, and continued with a menacing grin to +screw himself in the direction of his wife; gasping some remark as he +advanced, of which, in his choking anger, only the words, ‘Such a dose!’ +were audible. + +‘Not a bit nearer, Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, never ceasing to beat the +air. ‘Don’t come a bit nearer to me, or I’ll rouse the neighbourhood! +I’ll throw myself out of window. I’ll scream Fire and Murder! I’ll wake +the dead! Stop where you are, or I’ll make shrieks enough to wake the +dead!’ + +The determined voice of Mrs Clennam echoed ‘Stop!’ Jeremiah had stopped +already. + +‘It is closing in, Flintwinch. Let her alone. Affery, do you turn +against me after these many years?’ + +‘I do, if it’s turning against you to hear what I don’t know, and say +what I know. I have broke out now, and I can’t go back. I am determined +to do it. I will do it, I will, I will, I will! If that’s turning +against you, yes, I turn against both of you two clever ones. I told +Arthur when he first come home to stand up against you. I told him it +was no reason, because I was afeard of my life of you, that he should +be. All manner of things have been a-going on since then, and I won’t +be run up by Jeremiah, nor yet I won’t be dazed and scared, nor made a +party to I don’t know what, no more. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! I’ll +up for Arthur when he has nothing left, and is ill, and in prison, and +can’t up for himself. I will, I will, I will, I will!’ + +‘How do you know, you heap of confusion,’ asked Mrs Clennam sternly, +‘that in doing what you are doing now, you are even serving Arthur?’ + +‘I don’t know nothing rightly about anything,’ said Affery; ‘and if +ever you said a true word in your life, it’s when you call me a heap of +confusion, for you two clever ones have done your most to make me such. +You married me whether I liked it or not, and you’ve led me, pretty well +ever since, such a life of dreaming and frightening as never was known, +and what do you expect me to be but a heap of confusion? You wanted to +make me such, and I am such; but I won’t submit no longer; no, I won’t, +I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!’ She was still beating the air against all +comers. + +After gazing at her in silence, Mrs Clennam turned to Rigaud. ‘You +see and hear this foolish creature. Do you object to such a piece of +distraction remaining where she is?’ + +‘I, madame,’ he replied, ‘do I? That’s a question for you.’ + +‘I do not,’ she said, gloomily. ‘There is little left to choose now. +Flintwinch, it is closing in.’ + +Mr Flintwinch replied by directing a look of red vengeance at his wife, +and then, as if to pinion himself from falling upon her, screwed his +crossed arms into the breast of his waistcoat, and with his chin very +near one of his elbows stood in a corner, watching Rigaud in the oddest +attitude. Rigaud, for his part, arose from his chair, and seated himself +on the table with his legs dangling. In this easy attitude, he met Mrs +Clennam’s set face, with his moustache going up and his nose coming +down. + +‘Madame, I am a gentleman--’ + +‘Of whom,’ she interrupted in her steady tones, ‘I have heard +disparagement, in connection with a French jail and an accusation of +murder.’ + +He kissed his hand to her with his exaggerated gallantry. + +‘Perfectly. Exactly. Of a lady too! What absurdity! How incredible! I +had the honour of making a great success then; I hope to have the +honour of making a great success now. I kiss your hands. Madame, I am a +gentleman (I was going to observe), who when he says, “I will definitely +finish this or that affair at the present sitting,” does definitely +finish it. I announce to you that we are arrived at our last sitting on +our little business. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’ + +She kept her eyes fixed upon him with a frown. ‘Yes.’ + +‘Further, I am a gentleman to whom mere mercenary trade-bargains are +unknown, but to whom money is always acceptable as the means of pursuing +his pleasures. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’ + +‘Scarcely necessary to ask, one would say. Yes.’ + +‘Further, I am a gentleman of the softest and sweetest disposition, +but who, if trifled with, becomes enraged. Noble natures under such +circumstances become enraged. I possess a noble nature. When the lion +is awakened--that is to say, when I enrage--the satisfaction of my +animosity is as acceptable to me as money. You always do me the favour +to follow, and to comprehend?’ + +‘Yes,’ she answered, somewhat louder than before. + +‘Do not let me derange you; pray be tranquil. I have said we are now +arrived at our last sitting. Allow me to recall the two sittings we have +held.’ + +‘It is not necessary.’ + +‘Death, madame,’ he burst out, ‘it’s my fancy! Besides, it clears the +way. The first sitting was limited. I had the honour of making your +acquaintance--of presenting my letter; I am a Knight of Industry, at +your service, madame, but my polished manners had won me so much of +success, as a master of languages, among your compatriots who are as +stiff as their own starch is to one another, but are ready to relax to +a foreign gentleman of polished manners--and of observing one or two +little things,’ he glanced around the room and smiled, ‘about this +honourable house, to know which was necessary to assure me, and +to convince me that I had the distinguished pleasure of making the +acquaintance of the lady I sought. I achieved this. I gave my word +of honour to our dear Flintwinch that I would return. I gracefully +departed.’ + +Her face neither acquiesced nor demurred. The same when he paused, and +when he spoke, it as yet showed him always the one attentive frown, +and the dark revelation before mentioned of her being nerved for the +occasion. + +‘I say, gracefully departed, because it was graceful to retire without +alarming a lady. To be morally graceful, not less than physically, is +a part of the character of Rigaud Blandois. It was also politic, as +leaving you with something overhanging you, to expect me again with a +little anxiety on a day not named. But your slave is politic. By Heaven, +madame, politic! Let us return. On the day not named, I have again the +honour to render myself at your house. I intimate that I have something +to sell, which, if not bought, will compromise madame whom I highly +esteem. I explain myself generally. I demand--I think it was a thousand +pounds. Will you correct me?’ + +Thus forced to speak, she replied with constraint, ‘You demanded as much +as a thousand pounds.’ + +‘I demand at present, Two. Such are the evils of delay. But to return +once more. We are not accordant; we differ on that occasion. I am +playful; playfulness is a part of my amiable character. Playfully, I +become as one slain and hidden. For, it may alone be worth half the sum +to madame, to be freed from the suspicions that my droll idea awakens. +Accident and spies intermix themselves against my playfulness, and spoil +the fruit, perhaps--who knows? only you and Flintwinch--when it is just +ripe. Thus, madame, I am here for the last time. Listen! Definitely the +last.’ + +As he struck his straggling boot-heels against the flap of the table, +meeting her frown with an insolent gaze, he began to change his tone for +a fierce one. + +‘Bah! Stop an instant! Let us advance by steps. Here is my Hotel-note to +be paid, according to contract. Five minutes hence we may be at daggers’ +points. I’ll not leave it till then, or you’ll cheat me. Pay it! Count +me the money!’ + +‘Take it from his hand and pay it, Flintwinch,’ said Mrs Clennam. + +He spirted it into Mr Flintwinch’s face when the old man advanced to +take it, and held forth his hand, repeating noisily, ‘Pay it! Count it +out! Good money!’ Jeremiah picked the bill up, looked at the total with +a bloodshot eye, took a small canvas bag from his pocket, and told the +amount into his hand. + +Rigaud chinked the money, weighed it in his hand, threw it up a little +way and caught it, chinked it again. + +‘The sound of it, to the bold Rigaud Blandois, is like the taste of +fresh meat to the tiger. Say, then, madame. How much?’ + +He turned upon her suddenly with a menacing gesture of the weighted hand +that clenched the money, as if he were going to strike her with it. + +‘I tell you again, as I told you before, that we are not rich here, as +you suppose us to be, and that your demand is excessive. I have not the +present means of complying with such a demand, if I had ever so great an +inclination.’ + +‘If!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Hear this lady with her If! Will you say that you +have not the inclination?’ + +‘I will say what presents itself to me, and not what presents itself to +you.’ + +‘Say it then. As to the inclination. Quick! Come to the inclination, and +I know what to do.’ + +She was no quicker, and no slower, in her reply. ‘It would seem that +you have obtained possession of a paper--or of papers--which I assuredly +have the inclination to recover.’ + +Rigaud, with a loud laugh, drummed his heels against the table, and +chinked his money. ‘I think so! I believe you there!’ + +‘The paper might be worth, to me, a sum of money. I cannot say how much, +or how little.’ + +‘What the Devil!’ he asked savagely. ‘Not after a week’s grace to +consider?’ + +‘No! I will not out of my scanty means--for I tell you again, we are +poor here, and not rich--I will not offer any price for a power that I +do not know the worst and the fullest extent of. This is the third time +of your hinting and threatening. You must speak explicitly, or you may +go where you will, and do what you will. It is better to be torn to +pieces at a spring, than to be a mouse at the caprice of such a cat.’ + +He looked at her so hard with those eyes too near together that the +sinister sight of each, crossing that of the other, seemed to make the +bridge of his hooked nose crooked. After a long survey, he said, with +the further setting off of his internal smile: + +‘You are a bold woman!’ + +‘I am a resolved woman.’ + +‘You always were. What? She always was; is it not so, my little +Flintwinch?’ + +‘Flintwinch, say nothing to him. It is for him to say, here and now, +all he can; or to go hence, and do all he can. You know this to be our +determination. Leave him to his action on it.’ + +She did not shrink under his evil leer, or avoid it. He turned it upon +her again, but she remained steady at the point to which she had fixed +herself. He got off the table, placed a chair near the sofa, sat down in +it, and leaned an arm upon the sofa close to her own, which he touched +with his hand. Her face was ever frowning, attentive, and settled. + +‘It is your pleasure then, madame, that I shall relate a morsel of +family history in this little family society,’ said Rigaud, with a +warning play of his lithe fingers on her arm. ‘I am something of a +doctor. Let me touch your pulse.’ + +She suffered him to take her wrist in his hand. Holding it, he proceeded +to say: + +‘A history of a strange marriage, and a strange mother, and a revenge, +and a suppression.--Aye, aye, aye? this pulse is beating curiously! +It appears to me that it doubles while I touch it. Are these the usual +changes of your malady, madame?’ + +There was a struggle in her maimed arm as she twisted it away, but there +was none in her face. On his face there was his own smile. + +‘I have lived an adventurous life. I am an adventurous character. I have +known many adventurers; interesting spirits--amiable society! To one +of them I owe my knowledge and my proofs--I repeat it, estimable +lady--proofs--of the ravishing little family history I go to commence. +You will be charmed with it. But, bah! I forget. One should name a +history. Shall I name it the history of a house? But, bah, again. There +are so many houses. Shall I name it the history of this house?’ + +Leaning over the sofa, poised on two legs of his chair and his left +elbow; that hand often tapping her arm to beat his words home; his +legs crossed; his right hand sometimes arranging his hair, sometimes +smoothing his moustache, sometimes striking his nose, always threatening +her whatever it did; coarse, insolent, rapacious, cruel, and powerful, +he pursued his narrative at his ease. + +‘In fine, then, I name it the history of this house. I commence it. +There live here, let us suppose, an uncle and nephew. The uncle, a +rigid old gentleman of strong force of character; the nephew, habitually +timid, repressed, and under constraint.’ + +Mistress Affery, fixedly attentive in the window-seat, biting the +rolled up end of her apron, and trembling from head to foot, here cried +out, ‘Jeremiah, keep off from me! I’ve heerd, in my dreams, of Arthur’s +father and his uncle. He’s a talking of them. It was before my time +here; but I’ve heerd in my dreams that Arthur’s father was a poor, +irresolute, frightened chap, who had had everything but his orphan life +scared out of him when he was young, and that he had no voice in the +choice of his wife even, but his uncle chose her. There she sits! I +heerd it in my dreams, and you said it to her own self.’ + +As Mr Flintwinch shook his fist at her, and as Mrs Clennam gazed upon +her, Rigaud kissed his hand to her. + +‘Perfectly right, dear Madame Flintwinch. You have a genius for +dreaming.’ + +‘I don’t want none of your praises,’ returned Affery. ‘I don’t want to +have nothing at all to say to you. But Jeremiah said they was dreams, +and I’ll tell ‘em as such!’ Here she put her apron in her mouth again, +as if she were stopping somebody else’s mouth--perhaps Jeremiah’s, which +was chattering with threats as if he were grimly cold. + +‘Our beloved Madame Flintwinch,’ said Rigaud, ‘developing all of a +sudden a fine susceptibility and spirituality, is right to a marvel. +Yes. So runs the history. Monsieur, the uncle, commands the nephew to +marry. Monsieur says to him in effect, “My nephew, I introduce to you a +lady of strong force of character, like myself--a resolved lady, a stern +lady, a lady who has a will that can break the weak to powder: a lady +without pity, without love, implacable, revengeful, cold as the stone, +but raging as the fire.” Ah! what fortitude! Ah, what superiority of +intellectual strength! Truly, a proud and noble character that I +describe in the supposed words of Monsieur, the uncle. Ha, ha, ha! Death +of my soul, I love the sweet lady!’ + +Mrs Clennam’s face had changed. There was a remarkable darkness of +colour on it, and the brow was more contracted. ‘Madame, madame,’ said +Rigaud, tapping her on the arm, as if his cruel hand were sounding a +musical instrument, ‘I perceive I interest you. I perceive I awaken your +sympathy. Let us go on.’ + +The drooping nose and the ascending moustache had, however, to be hidden +for a moment with the white hand, before he could go on; he enjoyed the +effect he made so much. + +‘The nephew, being, as the lucid Madame Flintwinch has remarked, a poor +devil who has had everything but his orphan life frightened and famished +out of him--the nephew abases his head, and makes response: “My uncle, +it is to you to command. Do as you will!” Monsieur, the uncle, does as +he will. It is what he always does. The auspicious nuptials take place; +the newly married come home to this charming mansion; the lady is +received, let us suppose, by Flintwinch. Hey, old intriguer?’ + +Jeremiah, with his eyes upon his mistress, made no reply. Rigaud looked +from one to the other, struck his ugly nose, and made a clucking with +his tongue. + +‘Soon the lady makes a singular and exciting discovery. Thereupon, +full of anger, full of jealousy, full of vengeance, she forms--see you, +madame!--a scheme of retribution, the weight of which she ingeniously +forces her crushed husband to bear himself, as well as execute upon her +enemy. What superior intelligence!’ + +‘Keep off, Jeremiah!’ cried the palpitating Affery, taking her apron +from her mouth again. ‘But it was one of my dreams, that you told her, +when you quarrelled with her one winter evening at dusk--there she sits +and you looking at her--that she oughtn’t to have let Arthur when he +come home, suspect his father only; that she had always had the strength +and the power; and that she ought to have stood up more to Arthur, for +his father. It was in the same dream where you said to her that she was +not--not something, but I don’t know what, for she burst out tremendous +and stopped you. You know the dream as well as I do. When you come +down-stairs into the kitchen with the candle in your hand, and hitched +my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you +wouldn’t believe the noises.’ After this explosion Affery put her apron +into her mouth again; always keeping her hand on the window-sill and her +knee on the window-seat, ready to cry out or jump out if her lord and +master approached. + +Rigaud had not lost a word of this. + +‘Haha!’ he cried, lifting his eyebrows, folding his arms, and leaning +back in his chair. ‘Assuredly, Madame Flintwinch is an oracle! How shall +we interpret the oracle, you and I and the old intriguer? He said that +you were not--? And you burst out and stopped him! What was it you were +not? What is it you are not? Say then, madame!’ + +Under this ferocious banter, she sat breathing harder, and her mouth was +disturbed. Her lips quivered and opened, in spite of her utmost efforts +to keep them still. + +‘Come then, madame! Speak, then! Our old intriguer said that you were +not--and you stopped him. He was going to say that you were not--what? +I know already, but I want a little confidence from you. How, then? You +are not what?’ + +She tried again to repress herself, but broke out vehemently, ‘Not +Arthur’s mother!’ + +‘Good,’ said Rigaud. ‘You are amenable.’ + +With the set expression of her face all torn away by the explosion +of her passion, and with a bursting, from every rent feature, of the +smouldering fire so long pent up, she cried out: ‘I will tell it myself! +I will not hear it from your lips, and with the taint of your wickedness +upon it. Since it must be seen, I will have it seen by the light I stood +in. Not another word. Hear me!’ + +‘Unless you are a more obstinate and more persisting woman than even +I know you to be,’ Mr Flintwinch interposed, ‘you had better leave Mr +Rigaud, Mr Blandois, Mr Beelzebub, to tell it in his own way. What does +it signify when he knows all about it?’ + +‘He does not know all about it.’ + +‘He knows all he cares about it,’ Mr Flintwinch testily urged. + +‘He does not know _me_.’ + +‘What do you suppose he cares for you, you conceited woman?’ said Mr +Flintwinch. + +‘I tell you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I tell you when it has come +to this, I will tell it with my own lips, and will express myself +throughout it. What! Have I suffered nothing in this room, no +deprivation, no imprisonment, that I should condescend at last to +contemplate myself in such a glass as _that_. Can you see him? Can you +hear him? If your wife were a hundred times the ingrate that she is, and +if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am of inducing her to be +silent if this man is silenced, I would tell it myself, before I would +bear the torment of the hearing it from him.’ + +Rigaud pushed his chair a little back; pushed his legs out straight +before him; and sat with his arms folded over against her. + +‘You do not know what it is,’ she went on addressing him, ‘to be brought +up strictly and straitly. I was so brought up. Mine was no light youth +of sinful gaiety and pleasure. Mine were days of wholesome repression, +punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the evil of our +ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us--these +were the themes of my childhood. They formed my character, and filled me +with an abhorrence of evil-doers. When old Mr Gilbert Clennam proposed +his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon +me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint. +He told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he +had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and +where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. He told me +that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged +him as one; and that from his school-days to that hour, his uncle’s roof +has been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious +and dissolute. When, within a twelvemonth of our marriage, I found +my husband, at that time when my father spoke of him, to have sinned +against the Lord and outraged me by holding a guilty creature in my +place, was I to doubt that it had been appointed to me to make the +discovery, and that it was appointed to me to lay the hand of punishment +upon that creature of perdition? Was I to dismiss in a moment--not my +own wrongs--what was I! but all the rejection of sin, and all the war +against it, in which I had been bred?’ + +She laid her wrathful hand upon the watch on the table. + +‘No! “Do not forget.” The initials of those words are within here now, +and were within here then. I was appointed to find the old letter that +referred to them, and that told me what they meant, and whose work they +were, and why they were worked, lying with this watch in his secret +drawer. But for that appointment there would have been no discovery. +“Do not forget.” It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Do +not forget the deadly sin, do not forget the appointed discovery, do not +forget the appointed suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrong I +remembered? Mine! I was but a servant and a minister. What power could I +have over them, but that they were bound in the bonds of their sin, and +delivered to me!’ + +More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined +woman, since the time she recalled. More than forty years of strife +and struggle with the whisper that, by whatever name she called her +vindictive pride and rage, nothing through all eternity could change +their nature. Yet, gone those more than forty years, and come this +Nemesis now looking her in the face, she still abided by her old +impiety--still reversed the order of Creation, and breathed her own +breath into a clay image of her Creator. Verily, verily, travellers have +seen many monstrous idols in many countries; but no human eyes have ever +seen more daring, gross, and shocking images of the Divine nature than +we creatures of the dust make in our own likenesses, of our own bad +passions. + +‘When I forced him to give her up to me, by her name and place of +abode,’ she went on in her torrent of indignation and defence; ‘when I +accused her, and she fell hiding her face at my feet, was it my injury +that I asserted, were they my reproaches that I poured upon her? Those +who were appointed of old to go to wicked kings and accuse them--were +they not ministers and servants? And had not I, unworthy and far-removed +from them, sin to denounce? When she pleaded to me her youth, and his +wretched and hard life (that was her phrase for the virtuous training he +had belied), and the desecrated ceremony of marriage there had +secretly been between them, and the terrors of want and shame that had +overwhelmed them both when I was first appointed to be the instrument of +their punishment, and the love (for she said the word to me, down at my +feet) in which she had abandoned him and left him to me, was it _my_ +enemy that became my footstool, were they the words of my wrath that +made her shrink and quiver! Not unto me the strength be ascribed; not +unto me the wringing of the expiation!’ + +Many years had come and gone since she had had the free use even of +her fingers; but it was noticeable that she had already more than once +struck her clenched hand vigorously upon the table, and that when she +said these words she raised her whole arm in the air, as though it had +been a common action with her. + +‘And what was the repentance that was extorted from the hardness of her +heart and the blackness of her depravity? I, vindictive and implacable? +It may be so, to such as you who know no righteousness, and no +appointment except Satan’s. Laugh; but I will be known as I know +myself, and as Flintwinch knows me, though it is only to you and this +half-witted woman.’ + +‘Add, to yourself, madame,’ said Rigaud. ‘I have my little suspicions +that madame is rather solicitous to be justified to herself.’ + +‘It is false. It is not so. I have no need to be,’ she said, with great +energy and anger. + +‘Truly?’ retorted Rigaud. ‘Hah!’ + +‘I ask, what was the penitence, in works, that was demanded of her? +“You have a child; I have none. You love that child. Give him to me. He +shall believe himself to be my son, and he shall be believed by every +one to be my son. To save you from exposure, his father shall swear +never to see or communicate with you more; equally to save him from +being stripped by his uncle, and to save your child from being a beggar, +you shall swear never to see or communicate with either of them more. +That done, and your present means, derived from my husband, renounced, +I charge myself with your support. You may, with your place of retreat +unknown, then leave, if you please, uncontradicted by me, the lie that +when you passed out of all knowledge but mine, you merited a good name.” + That was all. She had to sacrifice her sinful and shameful affections; +no more. She was then free to bear her load of guilt in secret, and to +break her heart in secret; and through such present misery (light enough +for her, I think!) to purchase her redemption from endless misery, if +she could. If, in this, I punished her here, did I not open to her a way +hereafter? If she knew herself to be surrounded by insatiable vengeance +and unquenchable fires, were they mine? If I threatened her, then and +afterwards, with the terrors that encompassed her, did I hold them in my +right hand?’ + +She turned the watch upon the table, and opened it, and, with an +unsoftening face, looked at the worked letters within. + +‘They did _not_ forget. It is appointed against such offences that the +offenders shall not be able to forget. If the presence of Arthur was a +daily reproach to his father, and if the absence of Arthur was a daily +agony to his mother, that was the just dispensation of Jehovah. As well +might it be charged upon me, that the stings of an awakened conscience +drove her mad, and that it was the will of the Disposer of all things +that she should live so, many years. I devoted myself to reclaim the +otherwise predestined and lost boy; to give him the reputation of an +honest origin; to bring him up in fear and trembling, and in a life of +practical contrition for the sins that were heavy on his head before his +entrance into this condemned world. Was that a cruelty? Was I, too, +not visited with consequences of the original offence in which I had no +complicity? Arthur’s father and I lived no further apart, with half the +globe between us, than when we were together in this house. He died, +and sent this watch back to me, with its Do not forget. I do NOT forget, +though I do not read it as he did. I read in it, that I was appointed +to do these things. I have so read these three letters since I have +had them lying on this table, and I did so read them, with equal +distinctness, when they were thousands of miles away.’ + +As she took the watch-case in her hand, with that new freedom in the use +of her hand of which she showed no consciousness whatever, bending her +eyes upon it as if she were defying it to move her, Rigaud cried with a +loud and contemptuous snapping of his fingers. ‘Come, madame! Time runs +out. Come, lady of piety, it must be! You can tell nothing I don’t know. +Come to the money stolen, or I will! Death of my soul, I have had enough +of your other jargon. Come straight to the stolen money!’ + +‘Wretch that you are,’ she answered, and now her hands clasped her head: +‘through what fatal error of Flintwinch’s, through what incompleteness +on his part, who was the only other person helping in these things and +trusted with them, through whose and what bringing together of the ashes +of a burnt paper, you have become possessed of that codicil, I know no +more than how you acquired the rest of your power here--’ + +‘And yet,’ interrupted Rigaud, ‘it is my odd fortune to have by me, in a +convenient place that I know of, that same short little addition to the +will of Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, written by a lady and witnessed by the +same lady and our old intriguer! Ah, bah, old intriguer, crooked little +puppet! Madame, let us go on. Time presses. You or I to finish?’ + +‘I!’ she answered, with increased determination, if it were possible. +‘I, because I will not endure to be shown myself, and have myself +shown to any one, with your horrible distortion upon me. You, with your +practices of infamous foreign prisons and galleys would make it the +money that impelled me. It was not the money.’ + +‘Bah, bah, bah! I repudiate, for the moment, my politeness, and say, +Lies, lies, lies. You know you suppressed the deed and kept the money.’ + +‘Not for the money’s sake, wretch!’ She made a struggle as if she were +starting up; even as if, in her vehemence, she had almost risen on her +disabled feet. ‘If Gilbert Clennam, reduced to imbecility, at the point +of death, and labouring under the delusion of some imaginary relenting +towards a girl of whom he had heard that his nephew had once had a fancy +for her which he had crushed out of him, and that she afterwards drooped +away into melancholy and withdrawal from all who knew her--if, in that +state of weakness, he dictated to me, whose life she had darkened with +her sin, and who had been appointed to know her wickedness from her +own hand and her own lips, a bequest meant as a recompense to her +for supposed unmerited suffering; was there no difference between my +spurning that injustice, and coveting mere money--a thing which you, and +your comrades in the prisons, may steal from anyone?’ + +‘Time presses, madame. Take care!’ + +‘If this house was blazing from the roof to the ground,’ she returned, +‘I would stay in it to justify myself against my righteous motives being +classed with those of stabbers and thieves.’ + +Rigaud snapped his fingers tauntingly in her face. ‘One thousand guineas +to the little beauty you slowly hunted to death. One thousand guineas +to the youngest daughter her patron might have at fifty, or (if he +had none) brother’s youngest daughter, on her coming of age, “as the +remembrance his disinterestedness may like best, of his protection of +a friendless young orphan girl.” Two thousand guineas. What! You will +never come to the money?’ + +‘That patron,’ she was vehemently proceeding, when he checked her. + +‘Names! Call him Mr Frederick Dorrit. No more evasions.’ + +‘That Frederick Dorrit was the beginning of it all. If he had not been +a player of music, and had not kept, in those days of his youth and +prosperity, an idle house where singers, and players, and such-like +children of Evil turned their backs on the Light and their faces to the +Darkness, she might have remained in her lowly station, and might not +have been raised out of it to be cast down. But, no. Satan entered into +that Frederick Dorrit, and counselled him that he was a man of innocent +and laudable tastes who did kind actions, and that here was a poor girl +with a voice for singing music with. Then he is to have her taught. Then +Arthur’s father, who has all along been secretly pining in the ways of +virtuous ruggedness for those accursed snares which are called the Arts, +becomes acquainted with her. And so, a graceless orphan, training to be +a singing girl, carries it, by that Frederick Dorrit’s agency, against +me, and I am humbled and deceived!--Not I, that is to say,’ she added +quickly, as colour flushed into her face; ‘a greater than I. What am I?’ + +Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had been gradually screwing himself towards +her, and who was now very near her elbow without her knowing it, made a +specially wry face of objection when she said these words, and moreover +twitched his gaiters, as if such pretensions were equivalent to little +barbs in his legs. + +‘Lastly,’ she continued, ‘for I am at the end of these things, and I +will say no more of them, and you shall say no more of them, and all +that remains will be to determine whether the knowledge of them can +be kept among us who are here present; lastly, when I suppressed that +paper, with the knowledge of Arthur’s father--’ + +‘But not with his consent, you know,’ said Mr Flintwinch. + +‘Who said with his consent?’ She started to find Jeremiah so near her, +and drew back her head, looking at him with some rising distrust. ‘You +were often enough between us when he would have had me produce it and +I would not, to have contradicted me if I had said, with his consent. I +say, when I suppressed that paper, I made no effort to destroy it, but +kept it by me, here in this house, many years. The rest of the Gilbert +property being left to Arthur’s father, I could at any time, without +unsettling more than the two sums, have made a pretence of finding +it. But, besides that I must have supported such pretence by a direct +falsehood (a great responsibility), I have seen no new reason, in +all the time I have been tried here, to bring it to light. It was a +rewarding of sin; the wrong result of a delusion. I did what I was +appointed to do, and I have undergone, within these four walls, what +I was appointed to undergo. When the paper was at last destroyed--as +I thought--in my presence, she had long been dead, and her patron, +Frederick Dorrit, had long been deservedly ruined and imbecile. He had +no daughter. I had found the niece before then; and what I did for her, +was better for her far than the money of which she would have had no +good.’ She added, after a moment, as though she addressed the watch: +‘She herself was innocent, and I might not have forgotten to relinquish +it to her at my death:’ and sat looking at it. + +‘Shall I recall something to you, worthy madame?’ said Rigaud. ‘The +little paper was in this house on the night when our friend the +prisoner--jail-comrade of my soul--came home from foreign countries. +Shall I recall yet something more to you? The little singing-bird +that never was fledged, was long kept in a cage by a guardian of your +appointing, well enough known to our old intriguer here. Shall we coax +our old intriguer to tell us when he saw him last?’ + +‘I’ll tell you!’ cried Affery, unstopping her mouth. ‘I dreamed it, +first of all my dreams. Jeremiah, if you come a-nigh me now, I’ll scream +to be heard at St Paul’s! The person as this man has spoken of, was +Jeremiah’s own twin brother; and he was here in the dead of the night, +on the night when Arthur come home, and Jeremiah with his own hands give +him this paper, along with I don’t know what more, and he took it away +in an iron box--Help! Murder! Save me from Jere-_mi_-ah!’ + +Mr Flintwinch had made a run at her, but Rigaud had caught him in his +arms midway. After a moment’s wrestle with him, Flintwinch gave up, and +put his hands in his pockets. + +‘What!’ cried Rigaud, rallying him as he poked and jerked him back with +his elbows, ‘assault a lady with such a genius for dreaming! Ha, ha, ha! +Why, she’ll be a fortune to you as an exhibition. All that she dreams +comes true. Ha, ha, ha! You’re so like him, Little Flintwinch. So like +him, as I knew him (when I first spoke English for him to the host) in +the Cabaret of the Three Billiard Tables, in the little street of the +high roofs, by the wharf at Antwerp! Ah, but he was a brave boy to +drink. Ah, but he was a brave boy to smoke! Ah, but he lived in a sweet +bachelor-apartment--furnished, on the fifth floor, above the wood and +charcoal merchant’s, and the dress-maker’s, and the chair-maker’s, and +the maker of tubs--where I knew him too, and wherewith his cognac and +tobacco, he had twelve sleeps a day and one fit, until he had a fit too +much, and ascended to the skies. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter how I +took possession of the papers in his iron box? Perhaps he confided it +to my hands for you, perhaps it was locked and my curiosity was piqued, +perhaps I suppressed it. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter, so that I +have it safe? We are not particular here; hey, Flintwinch? We are not +particular here; is it not so, madame?’ + +Retiring before him with vicious counter-jerks of his own elbows, Mr +Flintwinch had got back into his corner, where he now stood with his +hands in his pockets, taking breath, and returning Mrs Clennam’s stare. +‘Ha, ha, ha! But what’s this?’ cried Rigaud. ‘It appears as if you +don’t know, one the other. Permit me, Madame Clennam who suppresses, to +present Monsieur Flintwinch who intrigues.’ + +Mr Flintwinch, unpocketing one of his hands to scrape his jaw, advanced +a step or so in that attitude, still returning Mrs Clennam’s look, and +thus addressed her: + +‘Now, I know what you mean by opening your eyes so wide at me, but you +needn’t take the trouble, because I don’t care for it. I’ve been telling +you for how many years that you’re one of the most opinionated and +obstinate of women. That’s what _you_ are. You call yourself humble and +sinful, but you are the most Bumptious of your sex. That’s what _you_ +are. I have told you, over and over again when we have had a tiff, that +you wanted to make everything go down before you, but I wouldn’t go down +before you--that you wanted to swallow up everybody alive, but I +wouldn’t be swallowed up alive. Why didn’t you destroy the paper when +you first laid hands upon it? I advised you to; but no, it’s not your +way to take advice. You must keep it forsooth. Perhaps you may carry it +out at some other time, forsooth. As if I didn’t know better than that! +I think I see your pride carrying it out, with a chance of being +suspected of having kept it by you. But that’s the way you cheat +yourself. Just as you cheat yourself into making out that you didn’t do +all this business because you were a rigorous woman, all slight, and +spite, and power, and unforgiveness, but because you were a servant and +a minister, and were appointed to do it. Who are you, that you should be +appointed to do it? That may be your religion, but it’s my gammon. And +to tell you all the truth while I am about it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, +crossing his arms, and becoming the express image of irascible +doggedness, ‘I have been rasped--rasped these forty years--by your +taking such high ground even with me, who knows better; the effect of it +being coolly to put me on low ground. I admire you very much; you are a +woman of strong head and great talent; but the strongest head, and the +greatest talent, can’t rasp a man for forty years without making him +sore. So I don’t care for your present eyes. Now, I am coming to the +paper, and mark what I say. You put it away somewhere, and you kept your +own counsel where. You’re an active woman at that time, and if you want +to get that paper, you can get it. But, mark. There comes a time when +you are struck into what you are now, and then if you want to get that +paper, you can’t get it. So it lies, long years, in its hiding-place. At +last, when we are expecting Arthur home every day, and when any day may +bring him home, and it’s impossible to say what rummaging he may make +about the house, I recommend you five thousand times, if you can’t get +at it, to let me get at it, that it may be put in the fire. But no--no +one but you knows where it is, and that’s power; and, call yourself +whatever humble names you will, I call you a female Lucifer in appetite +for power! On a Sunday night, Arthur comes home. He has not been in this +room ten minutes, when he speaks of his father’s watch. You know very +well that the Do Not Forget, at the time when his father sent that watch +to you, could only mean, the rest of the story being then all dead and +over, Do Not Forget the suppression. Make restitution! Arthur’s ways +have frightened you a bit, and the paper shall be burnt after all. So, +before that jumping jade and Jezebel,’ Mr Flintwinch grinned at his +wife, ‘has got you into bed, you at last tell me where you have put the +paper, among the old ledgers in the cellars, where Arthur himself went +prowling the very next morning. But it’s not to be burnt on a Sunday +night. No; you are strict, you are; we must wait over twelve o’clock, +and get into Monday. Now, all this is a swallowing of me up alive that +rasps me; so, feeling a little out of temper, and not being as strict as +yourself, I take a look at the document before twelve o’clock to refresh +my memory as to its appearance--fold up one of the many yellow old +papers in the cellars like it--and afterwards, when we have got into +Monday morning, and I have, by the light of your lamp, to walk from you, +lying on that bed, to this grate, make a little exchange like the +conjuror, and burn accordingly. My brother Ephraim, the lunatic-keeper +(I wish he had had himself to keep in a strait-waistcoat), had had many +jobs since the close of the long job he got from you, but had not done +well. His wife died (not that that was much; mine might have died +instead, and welcome), he speculated unsuccessfully in lunatics, he got +into difficulty about over-roasting a patient to bring him to reason, +and he got into debt. He was going out of the way, on what he had been +able to scrape up, and a trifle from me. He was here that early Monday +morning, waiting for the tide; in short, he was going to Antwerp, where +(I am afraid you’ll be shocked at my saying, And be damned to him!) he +made the acquaintance of this gentleman. He had come a long way, and, I +thought then, was only sleepy; but, I suppose now, was drunk. When +Arthur’s mother had been under the care of him and his wife, she had +been always writing, incessantly writing,--mostly letters of confession +to you, and Prayers for forgiveness. My brother had handed, from time to +time, lots of these sheets to me. I thought I might as well keep them to +myself as have them swallowed up alive too; so I kept them in a box, +looking over them when I felt in the humour. Convinced that it was +advisable to get the paper out of the place, with Arthur coming about +it, I put it into this same box, and I locked the whole up with two +locks, and I trusted it to my brother to take away and keep, till I +should write about it. I did write about it, and never got an answer. I +didn’t know what to make of it, till this gentleman favoured us with his +first visit. Of course, I began to suspect how it was, then; and I don’t +want his word for it now to understand how he gets his knowledge from my +papers, and your paper, and my brother’s cognac and tobacco talk (I wish +he’d had to gag himself). Now, I have only one thing more to say, you +hammer-headed woman, and that is, that I haven’t altogether made up my +mind whether I might, or might not, have ever given you any trouble +about the codicil. I think not; and that I should have been quite +satisfied with knowing I had got the better of you, and that I held the +power over you. In the present state of circumstances, I have no more +explanation to give you till this time to-morrow night. So you may as +well,’ said Mr Flintwinch, terminating his oration with a screw, ‘keep +your eyes open at somebody else, for it’s no use keeping ‘em open at +me.’ + +She slowly withdrew them when he had ceased, and dropped her forehead on +her hand. Her other hand pressed hard upon the table, and again the +curious stir was observable in her, as if she were going to rise. + +‘This box can never bring, elsewhere, the price it will bring here. This +knowledge can never be of the same profit to you, sold to any other +person, as sold to me. But I have not the present means of raising the +sum you have demanded. I have not prospered. What will you take now, and +what at another time, and how am I to be assured of your silence?’ + +‘My angel,’ said Rigaud, ‘I have said what I will take, and time +presses. Before coming here, I placed copies of the most important of +these papers in another hand. Put off the time till the Marshalsea gate +shall be shut for the night, and it will be too late to treat. The +prisoner will have read them.’ + +She put her two hands to her head again, uttered a loud exclamation, and +started to her feet. She staggered for a moment, as if she would have +fallen; then stood firm. + +‘Say what you mean. Say what you mean, man!’ + +Before her ghostly figure, so long unused to its erect attitude, and so +stiffened in it, Rigaud fell back and dropped his voice. It was, to all +the three, almost as if a dead woman had risen. + +‘Miss Dorrit,’ answered Rigaud, ‘the little niece of Monsieur Frederick, +whom I have known across the water, is attached to the prisoner. Miss +Dorrit, little niece of Monsieur Frederick, watches at this moment over +the prisoner, who is ill. For her I with my own hands left a packet +at the prison, on my way here, with a letter of instructions, “_for his +sake_”--she will do anything for his sake--to keep it without breaking +the seal, in case of its being reclaimed before the hour of shutting up +to-night--if it should not be reclaimed before the ringing of the prison +bell, to give it to him; and it encloses a second copy for herself, +which he must give to her. What! I don’t trust myself among you, now we +have got so far, without giving my secret a second life. And as to its +not bringing me, elsewhere, the price it will bring here, say then, +madame, have you limited and settled the price the little niece will +give--for his sake--to hush it up? Once more I say, time presses. The +packet not reclaimed before the ringing of the bell to-night, you cannot +buy. I sell, then, to the little girl!’ + +Once more the stir and struggle in her, and she ran to a closet, tore +the door open, took down a hood or shawl, and wrapped it over her head. +Affery, who had watched her in terror, darted to her in the middle of +the room, caught hold of her dress, and went on her knees to her. + +‘Don’t, don’t, don’t! What are you doing? Where are you going? You’re a +fearful woman, but I don’t bear you no ill-will. I can do poor Arthur +no good now, that I see; and you needn’t be afraid of me. I’ll keep your +secret. Don’t go out, you’ll fall dead in the street. Only promise me, +that, if it’s the poor thing that’s kept here secretly, you’ll let me +take charge of her and be her nurse. Only promise me that, and never be +afraid of me.’ + +Mrs Clennam stood still for an instant, at the height of her rapid +haste, saying in stern amazement: + +‘Kept here? She has been dead a score of years or more. Ask +Flintwinch--ask _him_. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur +went abroad.’ + +‘So much the worse,’ said Affery, with a shiver, ‘for she haunts the +house, then. Who else rustles about it, making signals by dropping +dust so softly? Who else comes and goes, and marks the walls with +long crooked touches when we are all a-bed? Who else holds the door +sometimes? But don’t go out--don’t go out! Mistress, you’ll die in the +street!’ + +Her mistress only disengaged her dress from the beseeching hands, said +to Rigaud, ‘Wait here till I come back!’ and ran out of the room. They +saw her, from the window, run wildly through the court-yard and out at +the gateway. + +For a few moments they stood motionless. Affery was the first to move, +and she, wringing her hands, pursued her mistress. Next, Jeremiah +Flintwinch, slowly backing to the door, with one hand in a pocket, and +the other rubbing his chin, twisted himself out in his reticent way, +speechlessly. Rigaud, left alone, composed himself upon the window-seat +of the open window, in the old Marseilles-jail attitude. He laid his +cigarettes and fire-box ready to his hand, and fell to smoking. + +‘Whoof! Almost as dull as the infernal old jail. Warmer, but almost as +dismal. Wait till she comes back? Yes, certainly; but where is she gone, +and how long will she be gone? No matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my +amiable subject, you will get your money. You will enrich yourself. You +have lived a gentleman; you will die a gentleman. You triumph, my little +boy; but it is your character to triumph. Whoof!’ + +In the hour of his triumph, his moustache went up and his nose came +down, as he ogled a great beam over his head with particular +satisfaction. + + + + +CHAPTER 31. Closed + + +The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when +the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate +neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there +were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the +river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into +the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment. + +Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain, +conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried +head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward, +taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable +by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been +lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes. +Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people, +crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions +pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this +spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it +passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious +after it. + +Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces +into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air, +and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected +changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the +controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from +which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she +held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather +than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the +bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she +must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and +turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she +found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces. + +‘Why are you encircling me?’ she asked, trembling. + +None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there +arose a shrill cry of ‘’Cause you’re mad!’ + +‘I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea +prison.’ + +The shrill outer circle again retorted, ‘Then that ‘ud show you was mad +if nothing else did, ‘cause it’s right opposite!’ + +A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as +a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: ‘Was it the Marshalsea you +wanted? I’m going on duty there. Come across with me.’ + +She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd, +rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and +behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam. +After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened, +and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the +outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already +striving with the prison shadows. + +‘Why, John!’ said the turnkey who admitted them. ‘What is it?’ + +‘Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered +by the boys. Who did you want, ma’am?’ + +‘Miss Dorrit. Is she here?’ + +The young man became more interested. ‘Yes, she is here. What might your +name be?’ + +‘Mrs Clennam.’ + +‘Mr Clennam’s mother?’ asked the young man. + +She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. ‘Yes. She had better be +told it is his mother.’ + +‘You see,’ said the young man, ‘the Marshal’s family living in the +country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms +in his house to use when she likes. Don’t you think you had better come +up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?’ + +She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up +a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a +darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening +prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out +of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were +going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best +might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness +of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of +free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and +heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this +prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or +two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her. + +‘Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as--’ + +Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the +face that turned to her. + +‘This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don’t know what it is.’ +With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all that aside. ‘You have a +packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not +reclaimed before this place closed to-night.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘I reclaim it.’ + +Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which +remained stretched out after receiving it. + +‘Have you any idea of its contents?’ + +Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her, +which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal +to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little +Dorrit answered ‘No.’ + +‘Read them.’ + +Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and +broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was +addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of +the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too +dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window. +In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky +could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken +exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When +she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself +before her. + +‘You know, now, what I have done.’ + +‘I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry, +and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have +read,’ said Little Dorrit tremulously. + +‘I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can +you forgive me?’ + +‘I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you +are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.’ + +‘I have more yet to ask.’ + +‘Not in that posture,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘It is unnatural to see your +grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.’ With that she +raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her +earnestly. + +‘The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows +out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and +gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am +dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it +can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But +you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare +me until I am dead?’ + +‘I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,’ +returned Little Dorrit, ‘that I can scarcely give you a steady answer. +If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr +Clennam no good--’ + +‘I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first +consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I +ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare +me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?’ + +‘I will.’ + +‘GOD bless you!’ + +She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little +Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three +grateful words, was at once fervent and broken--broken by emotion as +unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs. + +‘You will wonder, perhaps,’ she said in a stronger tone, ‘that I can +better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son +of my enemy who wronged me.--For she did wrong me! She not only sinned +grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur’s father +was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that +she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her. +You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn +of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that +he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him +as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?’ + +‘No thought,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘can be quite a stranger to my heart, +that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied +upon for being kind and generous and good.’ + +‘I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person +from whom I would conceal this, while I am in it. I kept over him as +a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and +correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions +of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an +angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father, +seeing the weakness of his father yearning to unbend to him; and forcing +it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage and +hardship. I have seen him, with his mother’s face, looking up at me in +awe from his little books, and trying to soften me with his mother’s +ways that hardened me.’ + +The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of +words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice. + +‘For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and +what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that +child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother’s influence +lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and +to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he +might--so frail we are, and so do the corrupt affections of the flesh +war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered +himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in +his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned +away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done +considerately and with deference. These have been his relations towards +me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter +time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear +of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you +are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your +misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the +motives with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter to endure +than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can +imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the +station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether +into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and +exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see +it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his +face, and utterly perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning +and swallowed by an earthquake.’ + +Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions +was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so, +when she added: + +‘Even now, I see _you_ shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.’ + +Little Dorrit could not gainsay it. She tried not to show it, but she +recoiled with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely +and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry upon +it, in its own plain nature. + +‘I have done,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘what it was given to me to do. I have +set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument +of severity against sin. Have not mere sinners like myself been +commissioned to lay it low in all time?’ + +‘In all time?’ repeated Little Dorrit. + +‘Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance had +moved me, could I have found no justification? None in the old days +when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the +wrath of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked even in blood, and +yet found favour?’ + +‘O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘angry feelings and +unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life +has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very +defective; but let me implore you to remember later and better days. +Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the +friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who +shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if +we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There +is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in His life, I am sure. +There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other +footsteps, I am certain.’ + +In the softened light of the window, looking from the scene of her early +trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition to the +black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine on which she rested +were to that figure’s history. It bent its head low again, and said not +a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring. + +‘Hark!’ cried Mrs Clennam starting, ‘I said I had another petition. +It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this +packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be +bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He +asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having +time. He refuses to make any abatement, because his threat is, that if +he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show +him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail +with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask +in Arthur’s name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur’s sake!’ + +Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided away into the prison for a +few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out +by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front +court-yard, now all quiet and deserted, gained the street. + +It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness +than a long twilight. The vista of street and bridge was plain to see, +and the sky was serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their +doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were +walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and +few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear +steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the +murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that +rose into the sky had lost its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it. +The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of +cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over +the whole length and breadth of the tranquil firmament, great shoots of +light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later +covenant of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a +glory. + +Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs +Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit’s side, unmolested. They left the +great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound +their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were +at the gateway, when there was a sudden noise like thunder. + +‘What was that! Let us make haste in,’ cried Mrs Clennam. + +They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her +back. + +In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying +smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged +outward, opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened +by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their +faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them +and the placid sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As +they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys, +which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, +broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every +tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch deeper. + +So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable, +they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking. +There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour +moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word. +For upwards of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking +attentively at those about her and appearing to understand what they +said; but the rigid silence she had so long held was evermore enforced +upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a +negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue. + +Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight +of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old +mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house, +and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now; +Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and +always wrong in the theories she deduced from them. + +When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm +again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties +of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the +ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its +fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been +two. Rumour finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr +Flintwinch. + +The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring pipes of gas, and +on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose +into its zenith, and aslant of it as it declined, and on a level with it +again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling, and carrying away, +in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night +and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the +dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had +been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay +upon him, crushing him. + +Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and +shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and +by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which +indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the +moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under +its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow, +subterranean, suffocated notes, ‘Here I am!’ At the opposite extremity +of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open +a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both +soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable +fortitude that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his +collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on +without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars +opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right +or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade. + +It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the +time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been +rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could +be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive +account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the +clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty +hours’ time, determined for her part that his taking himself off within +that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and +substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly +thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a +man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave +him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the +depths of the earth. + +This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted +in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London +geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated +intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore +the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to +be an Englishman, consorted with the Dutchmen on the quaint banks of the +canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the +style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge. + + + + +CHAPTER 32. Going + + +Arthur continuing to lie very ill in the Marshalsea, and Mr Rugg +descrying no break in the legal sky affording a hope of his enlargement, +Mr Pancks suffered desperately from self-reproaches. If it had not been +for those infallible figures which proved that Arthur, instead of pining +in imprisonment, ought to be promenading in a carriage and pair, and +that Mr Pancks, instead of being restricted to his clerkly wages, ought +to have from three to five thousand pounds of his own at his immediate +disposal, that unhappy arithmetician would probably have taken to his +bed, and there have made one of the many obscure persons who turned +their faces to the wall and died, as a last sacrifice to the late Mr +Merdle’s greatness. Solely supported by his unimpugnable calculations, +Mr Pancks led an unhappy and restless life; constantly carrying his +figures about with him in his hat, and not only going over them himself +on every possible occasion, but entreating every human being he could +lay hold of to go over them with him, and observe what a clear case it +was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard there was scarcely an inhabitant of +note to whom Mr Pancks had not imparted his demonstration, and, as +figures are catching, a kind of cyphering measles broke out in that +locality, under the influence of which the whole Yard was light-headed. + +The more restless Mr Pancks grew in his mind, the more impatient he +became of the Patriarch. In their later conferences his snorting assumed +an irritable sound which boded the Patriarch no good; likewise, Mr +Pancks had on several occasions looked harder at the Patriarchal bumps +than was quite reconcilable with the fact of his not being a painter, or +a peruke-maker in search of the living model. + +However, he steamed in and out of his little back Dock according as he +was wanted or not wanted in the Patriarchal presence, and business had +gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed +by Mr Pancks, and cropped by Mr Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr Pancks +had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as _his_ +share; Mr Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and +all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that +benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he +twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week’s balance, ‘everything +had been satisfactory to all parties--all parties--satisfactory, sir, to +all parties.’ + +The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in +the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it +may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering +bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a +highly heated condition. + +‘Mr Pancks,’ was the Patriarchal remark, ‘you have been remiss, you have +been remiss, sir.’ + +‘What do you mean by that?’ was the short rejoinder. + +The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was +so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else +within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly +cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was +a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden +sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the +evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that +with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair, +and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his +easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance +of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human +species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human +kindness. + +Wherefore, Mr Pancks said, ‘What do you mean by that?’ and put his hair +up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner. + +‘I mean, Mr Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper +with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don’t squeeze +them. You don’t squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You +must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as +satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.’ + +‘_Don’t_ I squeeze ‘em?’ retorted Mr Pancks. ‘What else am I made for?’ + +‘You are made for nothing else, Mr Pancks. You are made to do your +duty, but you don’t do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you +must squeeze to pay.’ The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this +brilliant turn, after Dr Johnson, which he had not in the least +expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great +satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful +portrait, ‘Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.’ + +‘Oh,’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’ + +‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr Pancks, to +squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.’ + +‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Ain’t that too soon? I squeezed it dry to-day.’ + +‘Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.’ + +‘Oh!’ said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good +draught of his mixture. ‘Anything more?’ + +‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr Pancks, +with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often +to inquire for Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam, who is not just now in +circumstances that are by any means calculated to--to be satisfactory to +all parties, she goes, Mr Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire +for Mr Clennam in jail. In jail.’ + +‘He’s laid up, you know,’ said Pancks. ‘Perhaps it’s kind.’ + +‘Pooh, pooh, Mr Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do +with that. I can’t allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come +out; pay his debts, and come out.’ + +Although Mr Pancks’s hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it +another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled +at his proprietor in a most hideous manner. + +‘You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr Pancks, that I can’t +allow it, can’t allow it,’ said the Patriarch blandly. + +‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘You couldn’t mention it yourself?’ + +‘No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,’ the blundering old booby +could not resist the temptation of trying it again, ‘and you must +mention it to pay, mention it to pay.’ + +‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’ + +‘Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr Pancks, that you yourself are too often +and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr +Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other +people’s losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.’ + +Mr Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily +abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable ‘Oh!’ that even +the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to +look at him. Mr Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then +added, ‘Anything more?’ + +‘Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,’ said the Patriarch, +finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, ‘to take a little +stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back. +If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze +on Monday!’ + +Mr Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the +Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary +appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also +hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr Casby to +go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at +him over the little green window-blinds. ‘I thought so,’ he observed. ‘I +knew where you were bound to. Good!’ He then steamed back to his Dock, +put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock, +said ‘Good-bye!’ and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight +for Mrs Plornish’s end of Bleeding Heart Yard, and arrived there, at the +top of the steps, hotter than ever. + +At the top of the steps, resisting Mrs Plornish’s invitations to come +and sit along with father in Happy Cottage--which to his relief were not +so numerous as they would have been on any other night than Saturday, +when the connection who so gallantly supported the business with +everything but money gave their orders freely--at the top of the steps +Mr Pancks remained until he beheld the Patriarch, who always entered +the Yard at the other end, slowly advancing, beaming, and surrounded +by suitors. Then Mr Pancks descended and bore down upon him, with his +utmost pressure of steam on. + +The Patriarch, approaching with his usual benignity, was surprised to +see Mr Pancks, but supposed him to have been stimulated to an immediate +squeeze instead of postponing that operation until Monday. The +population of the Yard were astonished at the meeting, for the two +powers had never been seen there together, within the memory of the +oldest Bleeding Heart. But they were overcome by unutterable amazement +when Mr Pancks, going close up to the most venerable of men and halting +in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger of his right +thumb and forefinger, applied the same to the brim of the broad-brimmed +hat, and, with singular smartness and precision, shot it off the +polished head as if it had been a large marble. + +Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal person, Mr Pancks +further astounded and attracted the Bleeding Hearts by saying in an +audible voice, ‘Now, you sugary swindler, I mean to have it out with +you!’ + +Mr Pancks and the Patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all +eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and door-steps were thronged. + +‘What do you pretend to be?’ said Mr Pancks. ‘What’s your moral game? +What do you go in for? Benevolence, an’t it? You benevolent!’ Here Mr +Pancks, apparently without the intention of hitting him, but merely to +relieve his mind and expend his superfluous power in wholesome exercise, +aimed a blow at the bumpy head, which the bumpy head ducked to +avoid. This singular performance was repeated, to the ever-increasing +admiration of the spectators, at the end of every succeeding article of +Mr Pancks’s oration. + +‘I have discharged myself from your service,’ said Pancks, ‘that I may +tell you what you are. You’re one of a lot of impostors that are the +worst lot of all the lots to be met with. Speaking as a sufferer by +both, I don’t know that I wouldn’t as soon have the Merdle lot as your +lot. You’re a driver in disguise, a screwer by deputy, a wringer, and +squeezer, and shaver by substitute. You’re a philanthropic sneak. You’re +a shabby deceiver!’ + +(The repetition of the performance at this point was received with a +burst of laughter.) + +‘Ask these good people who’s the hard man here. They’ll tell you Pancks, +I believe.’ + +This was confirmed with cries of ‘Certainly,’ and ‘Hear!’ + +‘But I tell you, good people--Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump +of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!’ said Pancks. +‘If you want to see the man who would flay you alive--here he is! Don’t +look for him in me, at thirty shillings a week, but look for him in +Casby, at I don’t know how much a year!’ + +‘Good!’ cried several voices. ‘Hear Mr Pancks!’ + +‘Hear Mr Pancks?’ cried that gentleman (after repeating the popular +performance). ‘Yes, I should think so! It’s almost time to hear Mr +Pancks. Mr Pancks has come down into the Yard to-night on purpose that +you should hear him. Pancks is only the Works; but here’s the Winder!’ + +The audience would have gone over to Mr Pancks, as one man, woman, and +child, but for the long, grey, silken locks, and the broad-brimmed hat. + +‘Here’s the Stop,’ said Pancks, ‘that sets the tune to be ground. And +there is but one tune, and its name is Grind, Grind, Grind! Here’s the +Proprietor, and here’s his Grubber. Why, good people, when he comes +smoothly spinning through the Yard to-night, like a slow-going +benevolent Humming-Top, and when you come about him with your complaints +of the Grubber, you don’t know what a cheat the Proprietor is! What do +you think of his showing himself to-night, that I may have all the blame +on Monday? What do you think of his having had me over the coals this +very evening, because I don’t squeeze you enough? What do you think of +my being, at the present moment, under special orders to squeeze you dry +on Monday?’ + +The reply was given in a murmur of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Shabby!’ + +‘Shabby?’ snorted Pancks. ‘Yes, I should think so! The lot that your +Casby belongs to, is the shabbiest of all the lots. Setting their +Grubbers on, at a wretched pittance, to do what they’re ashamed and +afraid to do and pretend not to do, but what they will have done, or +give a man no rest! Imposing on you to give their Grubbers nothing but +blame, and to give them nothing but credit! Why, the worst-looking +cheat in all this town who gets the value of eighteenpence under false +pretences, an’t half such a cheat as this sign-post of The Casby’s Head +here!’ + +Cries of ‘That’s true!’ and ‘No more he an’t!’ + +‘And see what you get of these fellows, besides,’ said Pancks. ‘See what +more you get of these precious Humming-Tops, revolving among you with +such smoothness that you’ve no idea of the pattern painted on ‘em, or +the little window in ‘em. I wish to call your attention to myself for a +moment. I an’t an agreeable style of chap, I know that very well.’ + +The auditory were divided on this point; its more uncompromising members +crying, ‘No, you are not,’ and its politer materials, ‘Yes, you are.’ + +‘I am, in general,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘a dry, uncomfortable, dreary +Plodder and Grubber. That’s your humble servant. There’s his full-length +portrait, painted by himself and presented to you, warranted a likeness! +But what’s a man to be, with such a man as this for his Proprietor? +What can be expected of him? Did anybody ever find boiled mutton and +caper-sauce growing in a cocoa-nut?’ + +None of the Bleeding Hearts ever had, it was clear from the alacrity of +their response. + +‘Well,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘and neither will you find in Grubbers like +myself, under Proprietors like this, pleasant qualities. I’ve been a +Grubber from a boy. What has my life been? Fag and grind, fag and grind, +turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven’t been agreeable to myself, +and I haven’t been likely to be agreeable to anybody else. If I was a +shilling a week less useful in ten years’ time, this impostor would give +me a shilling a week less; if as useful a man could be got at sixpence +cheaper, he would be taken in my place at sixpence cheaper. Bargain and +sale, bless you! Fixed principles! It’s a mighty fine sign-post, is The +Casby’s Head,’ said Mr Pancks, surveying it with anything rather than +admiration; ‘but the real name of the House is the Sham’s Arms. Its +motto is, Keep the Grubber always at it. Is any gentleman present,’ said +Mr Pancks, breaking off and looking round, ‘acquainted with the English +Grammar?’ + +Bleeding Heart Yard was shy of claiming that acquaintance. + +‘It’s no matter,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘I merely wish to remark that the task +this Proprietor has set me, has been never to leave off conjugating the +Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb To keep always at it. Keep +thou always at it. Let him keep always at it. Keep we or do we keep +always at it. Keep ye or do ye or you keep always at it. Let them keep +always at it. Here is your benevolent Patriarch of a Casby, and there is +his golden rule. He is uncommonly improving to look at, and I am not +at all so. He is as sweet as honey, and I am as dull as ditch-water. He +provides the pitch, and I handle it, and it sticks to me. Now,’ said +Mr Pancks, closing upon his late Proprietor again, from whom he had +withdrawn a little for the better display of him to the Yard; ‘as I am +not accustomed to speak in public, and as I have made a rather lengthy +speech, all circumstances considered, I shall bring my observations to a +close by requesting you to get out of this.’ + +The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required +so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in, +that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating +some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once +more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with +his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the +Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to +its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the +Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself. + +Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right +hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the +Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed +upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks +then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch’s hand, +cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch’s head. + +Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself +recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed +lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive, +not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the +earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in +return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a +place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of +his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in +making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter +in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring +again. + + + + +CHAPTER 33. Going! + + +The changes of a fevered room are slow and fluctuating; but the changes +of the fevered world are rapid and irrevocable. + +It was Little Dorrit’s lot to wait upon both kinds of change. The +Marshalsea walls, during a portion of every day, again embraced her in +their shadows as their child, while she thought for Clennam, worked for +him, watched him, and only left him, still to devote her utmost love and +care to him. Her part in the life outside the gate urged its pressing +claims upon her too, and her patience untiringly responded to them. +Here was Fanny, proud, fitful, whimsical, further advanced in that +disqualified state for going into society which had so much fretted +her on the evening of the tortoise-shell knife, resolved always to want +comfort, resolved not to be comforted, resolved to be deeply wronged, +and resolved that nobody should have the audacity to think her so. Here +was her brother, a weak, proud, tipsy, young old man, shaking from +head to foot, talking as indistinctly as if some of the money he plumed +himself upon had got into his mouth and couldn’t be got out, unable to +walk alone in any act of his life, and patronising the sister whom he +selfishly loved (he always had that negative merit, ill-starred and +ill-launched Tip!) because he suffered her to lead him. Here was Mrs +Merdle in gauzy mourning--the original cap whereof had possibly been +rent to pieces in a fit of grief, but had certainly yielded to a highly +becoming article from the Parisian market--warring with Fanny foot to +foot, and breasting her with her desolate bosom every hour in the day. +Here was poor Mr Sparkler, not knowing how to keep the peace between +them, but humbly inclining to the opinion that they could do no better +than agree that they were both remarkably fine women, and that there was +no nonsense about either of them--for which gentle recommendation they +united in falling upon him frightfully. Then, too, here was Mrs General, +got home from foreign parts, sending a Prune and a Prism by post every +other day, demanding a new Testimonial by way of recommendation to some +vacant appointment or other. Of which remarkable gentlewoman it may be +finally observed, that there surely never was a gentlewoman of whose +transcendent fitness for any vacant appointment on the face of this +earth, so many people were (as the warmth of her Testimonials evinced) +so perfectly satisfied--or who was so very unfortunate in having a +large circle of ardent and distinguished admirers, who never themselves +happened to want her in any capacity. + +On the first crash of the eminent Mr Merdle’s decease, many important +persons had been unable to determine whether they should cut Mrs Merdle, +or comfort her. As it seemed, however, essential to the strength of +their own case that they should admit her to have been cruelly deceived, +they graciously made the admission, and continued to know her. It +followed that Mrs Merdle, as a woman of fashion and good breeding who +had been sacrificed to the wiles of a vulgar barbarian (for Mr Merdle +was found out from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, the +moment he was found out in his pocket), must be actively championed by +her order for her order’s sake. She returned this fealty by causing it +to be understood that she was even more incensed against the felonious +shade of the deceased than anybody else was; thus, on the whole, she +came out of her furnace like a wise woman, and did exceedingly well. + +Mr Sparkler’s lordship was fortunately one of those shelves on which a +gentleman is considered to be put away for life, unless there should be +reasons for hoisting him up with the Barnacle crane to a more lucrative +height. That patriotic servant accordingly stuck to his colours (the +Standard of four Quarterings), and was a perfect Nelson in respect +of nailing them to the mast. On the profits of his intrepidity, Mrs +Sparkler and Mrs Merdle, inhabiting different floors of the genteel +little temple of inconvenience to which the smell of the day before +yesterday’s soup and coach-horses was as constant as Death to man, +arrayed themselves to fight it out in the lists of Society, sworn +rivals. And Little Dorrit, seeing all these things as they developed +themselves, could not but wonder, anxiously, into what back corner of +the genteel establishment Fanny’s children would be poked by-and-by, and +who would take care of those unborn little victims. + +Arthur being far too ill to be spoken with on subjects of emotion or +anxiety, and his recovery greatly depending on the repose into which +his weakness could be hushed, Little Dorrit’s sole reliance during this +heavy period was on Mr Meagles. He was still abroad; but she had written +to him through his daughter, immediately after first seeing Arthur in +the Marshalsea and since, confiding her uneasiness to him on the points +on which she was most anxious, but especially on one. To that one, +the continued absence of Mr Meagles abroad, instead of his comforting +presence in the Marshalsea, was referable. + +Without disclosing the precise nature of the documents that had fallen +into Rigaud’s hands, Little Dorrit had confided the general outline of +that story to Mr Meagles, to whom she had also recounted his fate. The +old cautious habits of the scales and scoop at once showed Mr Meagles +the importance of recovering the original papers; wherefore he wrote +back to Little Dorrit, strongly confirming her in the solicitude she +expressed on that head, and adding that he would not come over to +England ‘without making some attempt to trace them out.’ + +By this time Mr Henry Gowan had made up his mind that it would be +agreeable to him not to know the Meagleses. He was so considerate as to +lay no injunctions on his wife in that particular; but he mentioned +to Mr Meagles that personally they did not appear to him to get on +together, and that he thought it would be a good thing if--politely, and +without any scene, or anything of that sort--they agreed that they were +the best fellows in the world, but were best apart. Poor Mr Meagles, who +was already sensible that he did not advance his daughter’s happiness by +being constantly slighted in her presence, said ‘Good, Henry! You are +my Pet’s husband; you have displaced me, in the course of nature; if +you wish it, good!’ This arrangement involved the contingent advantage, +which perhaps Henry Gowan had not foreseen, that both Mr and Mrs +Meagles were more liberal than before to their daughter, when their +communication was only with her and her young child: and that his high +spirit found itself better provided with money, without being under the +degrading necessity of knowing whence it came. + +Mr Meagles, at such a period, naturally seized an occupation with great +ardour. He knew from his daughter the various towns which Rigaud had +been haunting, and the various hotels at which he had been living for +some time back. The occupation he set himself was to visit these with +all discretion and speed, and, in the event of finding anywhere that he +had left a bill unpaid, and a box or parcel behind, to pay such bill, +and bring away such box or parcel. + +With no other attendant than Mother, Mr Meagles went upon his +pilgrimage, and encountered a number of adventures. Not the least of his +difficulties was, that he never knew what was said to him, and that he +pursued his inquiries among people who never knew what he said to them. +Still, with an unshaken confidence that the English tongue was somehow +the mother tongue of the whole world, only the people were too stupid +to know it, Mr Meagles harangued innkeepers in the most voluble manner, +entered into loud explanations of the most complicated sort, and utterly +renounced replies in the native language of the respondents, on the +ground that they were ‘all bosh.’ Sometimes interpreters were called +in; whom Mr Meagles addressed in such idiomatic terms of speech, as +instantly to extinguish and shut up--which made the matter worse. On a +balance of the account, however, it may be doubted whether he lost much; +for, although he found no property, he found so many debts and various +associations of discredit with the proper name, which was the only word +he made intelligible, that he was almost everywhere overwhelmed with +injurious accusations. On no fewer than four occasions the police +were called in to receive denunciations of Mr Meagles as a Knight of +Industry, a good-for-nothing, and a thief, all of which opprobrious +language he bore with the best temper (having no idea what it meant), +and was in the most ignominious manner escorted to steam-boats and +public carriages, to be got rid of, talking all the while, like a +cheerful and fluent Briton as he was, with Mother under his arm. + +But, in his own tongue, and in his own head, Mr Meagles was a clear, +shrewd, persevering man. When he had ‘worked round,’ as he called it, to +Paris in his pilgrimage, and had wholly failed in it so far, he was not +disheartened. ‘The nearer to England I follow him, you see, Mother,’ +argued Mr Meagles, ‘the nearer I am likely to come to the papers, +whether they turn up or no. Because it is only reasonable to conclude +that he would deposit them somewhere where they would be safe from +people over in England, and where they would yet be accessible to +himself, don’t you see?’ + +At Paris Mr Meagles found a letter from Little Dorrit, lying waiting for +him; in which she mentioned that she had been able to talk for a minute +or two with Mr Clennam about this man who was no more; and that when she +told Mr Clennam that his friend Mr Meagles, who was on his way to see +him, had an interest in ascertaining something about the man if he +could, he had asked her to tell Mr Meagles that he had been known +to Miss Wade, then living in such a street at Calais. ‘Oho!’ said Mr +Meagles. + +As soon afterwards as might be in those Diligence days, Mr Meagles +rang the cracked bell at the cracked gate, and it jarred open, and the +peasant-woman stood in the dark doorway, saying, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’ +In acknowledgment of whose address, Mr Meagles murmured to himself that +there was some sense about these Calais people, who really did know +something of what you and themselves were up to; and returned, ‘Miss +Wade, my dear.’ He was then shown into the presence of Miss Wade. + +‘It’s some time since we met,’ said Mr Meagles, clearing his throat; ‘I +hope you have been pretty well, Miss Wade?’ + +Without hoping that he or anybody else had been pretty well, Miss Wade +asked him to what she was indebted for the honour of seeing him again? +Mr Meagles, in the meanwhile, glanced all round the room without +observing anything in the shape of a box. + +‘Why, the truth is, Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, in a comfortable, +managing, not to say coaxing voice, ‘it is possible that you may be able +to throw a light upon a little something that is at present dark. Any +unpleasant bygones between us are bygones, I hope. Can’t be helped now. +You recollect my daughter? Time changes so! A mother!’ + +In his innocence, Mr Meagles could not have struck a worse key-note. He +paused for any expression of interest, but paused in vain. + +‘That is not the subject you wished to enter on?’ she said, after a cold +silence. + +‘No, no,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘No. I thought your good nature might--’ + +‘I thought you knew,’ she interrupted, with a smile, ‘that my good +nature is not to be calculated upon?’ + +‘Don’t say so,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘you do yourself an injustice. However, +to come to the point.’ For he was sensible of having gained nothing +by approaching it in a roundabout way. ‘I have heard from my friend +Clennam, who, you will be sorry to hear, has been and still is very +ill--’ + +He paused again, and again she was silent. + +‘--that you had some knowledge of one Blandois, lately killed in London +by a violent accident. Now, don’t mistake me! I know it was a slight +knowledge,’ said Mr Meagles, dexterously forestalling an angry +interruption which he saw about to break. ‘I am fully aware of that. It +was a slight knowledge, I know. But the question is,’ Mr Meagles’s voice +here became comfortable again, ‘did he, on his way to England last time, +leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers or other in +some receptacle or other--any papers--with you: begging you to allow him +to leave them here for a short time, until he wanted them?’ + +‘The question is?’ she repeated. ‘Whose question is?’ + +‘Mine,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And not only mine but Clennam’s question, and +other people’s question. Now, I am sure,’ continued Mr Meagles, whose +heart was overflowing with Pet, ‘that you can’t have any unkind feeling +towards my daughter; it’s impossible. Well! It’s her question, too; +being one in which a particular friend of hers is nearly interested. +So here I am, frankly to say that is the question, and to ask, Now, did +he?’ + +‘Upon my word,’ she returned, ‘I seem to be a mark for everybody who +knew anything of a man I once in my life hired, and paid, and dismissed, +to aim their questions at!’ + +‘Now, don’t,’ remonstrated Mr Meagles, ‘don’t! Don’t take offence, +because it’s the plainest question in the world, and might be asked +of any one. The documents I refer to were not his own, were wrongfully +obtained, might at some time or other be troublesome to an innocent +person to have in keeping, and are sought by the people to whom they +really belong. He passed through Calais going to London, and there were +reasons why he should not take them with him then, why he should wish +to be able to put his hand upon them readily, and why he should distrust +leaving them with people of his own sort. Did he leave them here? I +declare if I knew how to avoid giving you offence, I would take any +pains to do it. I put the question personally, but there’s nothing +personal in it. I might put it to any one; I have put it already to many +people. Did he leave them here? Did he leave anything here?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Then unfortunately, Miss Wade, you know nothing about them?’ + +‘I know nothing about them. I have now answered your unaccountable +question. He did not leave them here, and I know nothing about them.’ + +‘There!’ said Mr Meagles rising. ‘I am sorry for it; that’s over; and I +hope there is not much harm done.--Tattycoram well, Miss Wade?’ + +‘Harriet well? O yes!’ + +‘I have put my foot in it again,’ said Mr Meagles, thus corrected. ‘I +can’t keep my foot out of it here, it seems. Perhaps, if I had thought +twice about it, I might never have given her the jingling name. But, +when one means to be good-natured and sportive with young people, one +doesn’t think twice. Her old friend leaves a kind word for her, Miss +Wade, if you should think proper to deliver it.’ + +She said nothing as to that; and Mr Meagles, taking his honest face out +of the dull room, where it shone like a sun, took it to the Hotel where +he had left Mrs Meagles, and where he made the Report: ‘Beaten, Mother; +no effects!’ He took it next to the London Steam Packet, which sailed in +the night; and next to the Marshalsea. + +The faithful John was on duty when Father and Mother Meagles presented +themselves at the wicket towards nightfall. Miss Dorrit was not there +then, he said; but she had been there in the morning, and invariably +came in the evening. Mr Clennam was slowly mending; and Maggy and Mrs +Plornish and Mr Baptist took care of him by turns. Miss Dorrit was sure +to come back that evening before the bell rang. There was the room the +Marshal had lent her, up-stairs, in which they could wait for her, if +they pleased. Mistrustful that it might be hazardous to Arthur to see +him without preparation, Mr Meagles accepted the offer; and they were +left shut up in the room, looking down through its barred window into +the jail. + +The cramped area of the prison had such an effect on Mrs Meagles that +she began to weep, and such an effect on Mr Meagles that he began to +gasp for air. He was walking up and down the room, panting, and making +himself worse by laboriously fanning himself with her handkerchief, when +he turned towards the opening door. + +‘Eh? Good gracious!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘this is not Miss Dorrit! Why, +Mother, look! Tattycoram!’ + +No other. And in Tattycoram’s arms was an iron box some two feet square. +Such a box had Affery Flintwinch seen, in the first of her dreams, going +out of the old house in the dead of the night under Double’s arm. This, +Tattycoram put on the ground at her old master’s feet: this, Tattycoram +fell on her knees by, and beat her hands upon, crying half in exultation +and half in despair, half in laughter and half in tears, ‘Pardon, dear +Master; take me back, dear Mistress; here it is!’ + +‘Tatty!’ exclaimed Mr Meagles. + +‘What you wanted!’ said Tattycoram. ‘Here it is! I was put in the next +room not to see you. I heard you ask her about it, I heard her say she +hadn’t got it, I was there when he left it, and I took it at bedtime and +brought it away. Here it is!’ + +‘Why, my girl,’ cried Mr Meagles, more breathless than before, ‘how did +you come over?’ + +‘I came in the boat with you. I was sitting wrapped up at the other end. +When you took a coach at the wharf, I took another coach and followed +you here. She never would have given it up after what you had said to +her about its being wanted; she would sooner have sunk it in the sea, or +burnt it. But, here it is!’ + +The glow and rapture that the girl was in, with her ‘Here it is!’ + +‘She never wanted it to be left, I must say that for her; but he left +it, and I knew well that after what you said, and after her denying +it, she never would have given it up. But here it is! Dear Master, dear +Mistress, take me back again, and give me back the dear old name! Let +this intercede for me. Here it is!’ + +Father and Mother Meagles never deserved their names better than when +they took the headstrong foundling-girl into their protection again. + +‘Oh! I have been so wretched,’ cried Tattycoram, weeping much more, +‘always so unhappy, and so repentant! I was afraid of her from the first +time I saw her. I knew she had got a power over me through understanding +what was bad in me so well. It was a madness in me, and she could raise +it whenever she liked. I used to think, when I got into that state, that +people were all against me because of my first beginning; and the kinder +they were to me, the worse fault I found in them. I made it out that +they triumphed above me, and that they wanted to make me envy them, when +I know--when I even knew then--that they never thought of such a thing. +And my beautiful young mistress not so happy as she ought to have been, +and I gone away from her! Such a brute and a wretch as she must think +me! But you’ll say a word to her for me, and ask her to be as forgiving +as you two are? For I am not so bad as I was,’ pleaded Tattycoram; ‘I am +bad enough, but not so bad as I was, indeed. I have had Miss Wade +before me all this time, as if it was my own self grown ripe--turning +everything the wrong way, and twisting all good into evil. I have had +her before me all this time, finding no pleasure in anything but keeping +me as miserable, suspicious, and tormenting as herself. Not that she had +much to do, to do that,’ cried Tattycoram, in a closing great burst of +distress, ‘for I was as bad as bad could be. I only mean to say, that, +after what I have gone through, I hope I shall never be quite so bad +again, and that I shall get better by very slow degrees. I’ll try very +hard. I won’t stop at five-and-twenty, sir, I’ll count five-and-twenty +hundred, five-and-twenty thousand!’ + +Another opening of the door, and Tattycoram subsided, and Little Dorrit +came in, and Mr Meagles with pride and joy produced the box, and her +gentle face was lighted up with grateful happiness and joy. The secret +was safe now! She could keep her own part of it from him; he should +never know of her loss; in time to come he should know all that was of +import to himself; but he should never know what concerned her only. +That was all passed, all forgiven, all forgotten. + +‘Now, my dear Miss Dorrit,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘I am a man of business--or +at least was--and I am going to take my measures promptly, in that +character. Had I better see Arthur to-night?’ + +‘I think not to-night. I will go to his room and ascertain how he is. +But I think it will be better not to see him to-night.’ + +‘I am much of your opinion, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and therefore +I have not been any nearer to him than this dismal room. Then I shall +probably not see him for some little time to come. But I’ll explain what +I mean when you come back.’ + +She left the room. Mr Meagles, looking through the bars of the window, +saw her pass out of the Lodge below him into the prison-yard. He said +gently, ‘Tattycoram, come to me a moment, my good girl.’ + +She went up to the window. + +‘You see that young lady who was here just now--that little, quiet, +fragile figure passing along there, Tatty? Look. The people stand out +of the way to let her go by. The men--see the poor, shabby fellows--pull +off their hats to her quite politely, and now she glides in at that +doorway. See her, Tattycoram?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘I have heard tell, Tatty, that she was once regularly called the child +of this place. She was born here, and lived here many years. I can’t +breathe here. A doleful place to be born and bred in, Tattycoram?’ + +‘Yes indeed, sir!’ + +‘If she had constantly thought of herself, and settled with herself that +everybody visited this place upon her, turned it against her, and cast +it at her, she would have led an irritable and probably an useless +existence. Yet I have heard tell, Tattycoram, that her young life has +been one of active resignation, goodness, and noble service. Shall I +tell you what I consider those eyes of hers, that were here just now, to +have always looked at, to get that expression?’ + +‘Yes, if you please, sir.’ + +‘Duty, Tattycoram. Begin it early, and do it well; and there is no +antecedent to it, in any origin or station, that will tell against us +with the Almighty, or with ourselves.’ + +They remained at the window, Mother joining them and pitying the +prisoners, until she was seen coming back. She was soon in the room, and +recommended that Arthur, whom she had left calm and composed, should not +be visited that night. + +‘Good!’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily. ‘I have not a doubt that’s best. I +shall trust my remembrances then, my sweet nurse, in your hands, and I +well know they couldn’t be in better. I am off again to-morrow morning.’ + +Little Dorrit, surprised, asked him where? + +‘My dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I can’t live without breathing. This place +has taken my breath away, and I shall never get it back again until +Arthur is out of this place.’ + +‘How is that a reason for going off again to-morrow morning?’ + +‘You shall understand,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘To-night we three will put up +at a City Hotel. To-morrow morning, Mother and Tattycoram will go down +to Twickenham, where Mrs Tickit, sitting attended by Dr Buchan in the +parlour-window, will think them a couple of ghosts; and I shall go +abroad again for Doyce. We must have Dan here. Now, I tell you, my love, +it’s of no use writing and planning and conditionally speculating upon +this and that and the other, at uncertain intervals and distances; we +must have Doyce here. I devote myself at daybreak to-morrow morning, to +bringing Doyce here. It’s nothing to me to go and find him. I’m an old +traveller, and all foreign languages and customs are alike to me--I +never understand anything about any of ‘em. Therefore I can’t be put +to any inconvenience. Go at once I must, it stands to reason; because +I can’t live without breathing freely; and I can’t breathe freely until +Arthur is out of this Marshalsea. I am stifled at the present moment, +and have scarcely breath enough to say this much, and to carry this +precious box down-stairs for you.’ + +They got into the street as the bell began to ring, Mr Meagles carrying +the box. Little Dorrit had no conveyance there: which rather surprised +him. He called a coach for her and she got into it, and he placed the +box beside her when she was seated. In her joy and gratitude she kissed +his hand. + +‘I don’t like that, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘It goes against my +feeling of what’s right, that _you_ should do homage to _me_--at the +Marshalsea Gate.’ + +She bent forward, and kissed his cheek. + +‘You remind me of the days,’ said Mr Meagles, suddenly drooping--‘but +she’s very fond of him, and hides his faults, and thinks that no +one sees them--and he certainly is well connected and of a very good +family!’ + +It was the only comfort he had in the loss of his daughter, and if he +made the most of it, who could blame him? + + + + +CHAPTER 34. Gone + + +On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise +restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn +day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the +summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops +had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the +orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson +among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy +winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings +among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from +the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the +bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to +be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were +open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand +on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like +autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees. + +Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its +fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of +any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars +bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice +as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in +it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother’s knee but hers +had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies, +on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the +early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from +blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery +acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were +memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful +and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life. + +When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that +the light was strong upon them. + +Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade +the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light +softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side. + +‘This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce’s +letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says +his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little +anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it +will soon be over now.’ + +‘Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!’ + +‘You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure +to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to--and to see,’ said Little +Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, ‘how deeply you mean it, that I cannot +say Don’t.’ + +He lifted her hand to his lips. + +‘You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little +Dorrit?’ + +‘Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.’ + +‘Very often?’ + +‘Rather often,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly. + +‘Every day?’ + +‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, ‘that I have been here +at least twice every day.’ + +He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it +again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to +court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his +breast. + +‘Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be +over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again, +and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten +what we said together, when you came back?’ + +‘O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been--You feel quite +strong to-day, don’t you?’ + +‘Quite strong.’ + +The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face. + +‘Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have +got?’ + +‘I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good +for Little Dorrit.’ + +‘I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and +longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?’ + +‘Never!’ + +‘You are quite sure you will not take half of it?’ + +‘Never, dear Little Dorrit!’ + +As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate +face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken +into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud. + +‘You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor +Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband’s +income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money +was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.’ + +Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. ‘I had hoped it might +not be so bad,’ he said: ‘but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing +the connection between her husband and the defaulter.’ + +‘Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry +for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!’ + +‘Had _he_ property in the same hands?’ + +‘Yes! And it’s all gone.--How much do you think my own great fortune +is?’ + +As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him, +she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had +rested. + +‘I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When +papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same +hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite +sure you will not share my fortune with me now?’ + +Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own +cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its +fellow-hand. + +‘Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last! +I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy +before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been +resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I +should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will +of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am +yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my +life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I +would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest +lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at +last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!’ + + +Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been +crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that, +after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs +like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her +gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.’s Aunt opportunely +coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should +Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours +afterwards, she went out? + +Flora’s eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits. +Mr F.’s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past +bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet +was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as +rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon’s head, and had got it +at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.’s Aunt, +publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal’s official residence, had +been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger +inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably +flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to +time. + +‘Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,’ said Flora, ‘that to propose +an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so +courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding +even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour +though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur--cannot overcome it +more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam--one last remark I +might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps +your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the +humble place of conversation.’ + +Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned +that she was quite at Flora’s disposition. Flora accordingly led the +way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.’s Aunt stalking +across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over, +with a perseverance worthy of a better cause. + +When the ‘three kidney ones,’ which were to be a blind to the +conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each +kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man +poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps, +Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief. + +‘If Fancy’s fair dreams,’ she began, ‘have ever pictured that when +Arthur--cannot overcome it pray excuse me--was restored to freedom even +a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to +be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if +offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled +and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in +contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find +no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere +the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully +red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when +it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the +interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious +clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I +heartily wish well to both.’ + +Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness. + +‘Call it not kindness,’ returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, ‘for +you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I +may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being +Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever +was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people’s yet +I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than +comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am +wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws +in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity +that Arthur will know that I didn’t desert him in his misfortunes but +that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do +anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly +fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice +hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing +it.’ + +Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great +advantage. + +‘Over and above which,’ said Flora, ‘I earnestly beg you as the dearest +thing that ever was if you’ll still excuse the familiarity from one who +moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don’t +know after all whether it wasn’t all nonsense between us though pleasant +at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and +the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without +weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent +of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I +am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had +brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have +been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where +papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved +since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something +of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not +my character nor ill-will though many faults.’ + +Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this +labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted +the trust. + +‘The withered chaplet my dear,’ said Flora, with great enjoyment, ‘is +then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside +down upon its what’s-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness +call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes +of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the +pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for +ever say Adieu!’ + +Mr F.’s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had +been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her +first assumption of that public position on the Marshal’s steps, took +the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe +to the relict of her late nephew. + +‘Bring him for’ard, and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’ + +Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that +they were going home to dinner. Mr F.’s Aunt persisted in replying, +‘Bring him for’ard and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’ Having reiterated +this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of +defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.’s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in +the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until +such time as ‘he’ should have been ‘brought for’ard,’ and the chucking +portion of his destiny accomplished. + +In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she +had not seen Mr F.’s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that +she would find it necessary to remain there ‘hours perhaps,’ until the +inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her +best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with +the kindest feeling on both sides. + +Mr F.’s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in +need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the +tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the +aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the +pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good +humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an +idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the +neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the +pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour, +declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons +of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned +so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very +pressing in his proposals that Mr F.’s Aunt should be removed. A +conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint +efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last +induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of +the window, and demanding to have him ‘brought for’ard’ for the purpose +originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful +glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably +consistent female intended by ‘him,’ Arthur Clennam. This, however, is +mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr +F.’s Aunt’s mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was +brought forward, will never be positively known. + + +The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea +now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no. + +One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning +ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new +love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so +true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone. + +‘Dear Arthur,’ said her delighted voice outside the door, ‘I have some +one here. May I bring some one in?’ + +He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered +‘Yes,’ and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr +Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a +sun-browned and jolly father. + +‘Now I am all right,’ said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. ‘Now it’s +over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me +before.’ + +‘I did,’ said Arthur; ‘but Amy told me--’ + +‘Little Dorrit. Never any other name.’ (It was she who whispered it.) + +‘--But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further +explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.’ + +‘And now you see me, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand +stoutly; ‘and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation. +The fact is, I _was_ here--came straight to you from the Allongers +and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this +day,--but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start +off again to catch Doyce.’ + +‘Poor Doyce!’ sighed Arthur. + +‘Don’t call him names that he don’t deserve,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘_He’s_ +not poor; _he’s_ doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over +there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He +has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don’t want things done and +find a man to do ‘em, that man’s off his legs; but where they do want +things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s on his legs. You won’t +have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell +you, Dan has done without ‘em!’ + +‘What a load you take from my mind!’ cried Arthur. ‘What happiness you +give me!’ + +‘Happiness?’ retorted Mr Meagles. ‘Don’t talk about happiness till you +see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over +yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He’s no +public offender, bless you, now! He’s medalled and ribboned, and starred +and crossed, and I don’t-know-what all’d, like a born nobleman. But we +mustn’t talk about that over here.’ + +‘Why not?’ + +‘Oh, egad!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, ‘he must +hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They +won’t do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the +Manger--won’t give her children such distinctions herself, and won’t +allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no, +Dan!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. ‘That won’t do here!’ + +‘If you had brought me (except for Doyce’s sake) twice what I have +lost,’ cried Arthur, ‘you would not have given me the pleasure that you +give me in this news.’ + +‘Why, of course, of course,’ assented Mr Meagles. ‘Of course I know +that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first +burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran +against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women’s nightcaps a +great deal too big for ‘em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of +incoherent races. _You_ know ‘em! Well! He was coming straight to me, +and I was going to him, and so we came back together.’ + +‘Doyce in England!’ exclaimed Arthur. + +‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. ‘I am the worst man +in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don’t know what I should +have done if I had been in the diplomatic line--right, perhaps! The long +and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight. +And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my +plain answer is--here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!’ + +Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and +said the rest for himself. + +‘There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,’ said +Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on +the palm of his hand, ‘and they’re soon disposed of. First, not a word +more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations. +I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the +consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another +time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every +failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too +sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly. +Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and +reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day +to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in +with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that, +after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after +your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep +quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and +then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was +right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did, +and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as +partners. That’s thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for +friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam, +I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as +useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you; +your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to +detain you here one half-hour longer.’ + +There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some +time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife +that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him. + +‘I made a remark a little while ago,’ said Daniel Doyce then, ‘which I +am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing +to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in +supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning? +Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct +from these walls and from this room?’ + +‘You do,’ returned Arthur. ‘It has been our cherished purpose.’ + +‘Very well!’ said Doyce. ‘Then, if this young lady will do me the honour +of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and +will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul’s Churchyard, I dare say +I know what we want to get there.’ + +Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles +lingered behind to say a word to his friend. + +‘I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and +we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she’s a +soft-hearted woman. She’s best at the Cottage, and I’ll stay there and +keep her company.’ + +With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night +ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual +and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the +sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the +world was there a room so full of quiet joy! + +‘My dear love,’ said Arthur. ‘Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be +gone directly.’ + +‘I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to +burn something for me.’ + +‘What?’ + +‘Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own +hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.’ + +‘Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?’ + +‘It is anything you like best, my own,’ she answered, laughing with +glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, ‘if you will only +humour me when the fire burns up.’ + +So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her +waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone, +in Little Dorrit’s eyes. ‘Is it bright enough now?’ said Arthur. ‘Quite +bright enough now,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Does the charm want any words +to be said?’ asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. ‘You can +say (if you don’t mind) “I love you!”’ answered Little Dorrit. So he said +it, and the paper burned away. + +They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though +many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face, +familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and +spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her +hand stretched out, saying, ‘Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live +very happy, dear!’ + +Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George’s Church, +and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal +character. And there was Little Dorrit’s old friend who had given her +the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should +come back to them to be married, after all. + +And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted +figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room +where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage +Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and +Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary +in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora +gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground +of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the +moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had +Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent +declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed +the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way. + +Little Dorrit’s old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and +the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman’s surplice, and all +the witnesses looked on with special interest. ‘For, you see,’ said +Little Dorrit’s old friend, ‘this young lady is one of our curiosities, +and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in +what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor, +with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she’s now +a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.’ + +They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her +husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the +steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in +the autumn morning sun’s bright rays, and then went down. + +Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down +to give a mother’s care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny’s neglected +children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into +Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend +to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he +made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had +ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea +and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring +streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine +and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and +the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE DORRIT ***
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